Wild Blood
by Corkerite
Summary: In a world where Arlathan never fell, a Chasind tribe running from the Blight ended up encamped on the slopes of Sundermount. When elves from the nearby city arrive on an errand for Asha'bellanar, the tribe's witch Hawke finds her life changed forever.
1. Chapter 1

"Wild Blood" originally appeared on the k!meme between May and June 2011. It is a DA2-inspired sequel to my alternate universe story "Dragon Age: Elvhenan," in which the Arlathan Empire defeated the Tevinters and persisted until the Fifth Blight. You don't have to read "DA:E" to enjoy "Wild Blood."

If you're a returning reader, welcome back!

* * *

><p>Hawke sat with Elder Miriam, chanting ancient charms as they methodically pounded roots and herbs in their mortars. Since coming to this strange northern land, every member of the tribe wanted the extra security of protective runes, painted on their faces, bodies or clothes. Only the shaman and her apprentice knew the proper making of it, so they found themselves so occupied nearly every other day.<p>

Both looked up as Danal came charging into the camp, the long-mustachioed scout approaching practically at a run. He came straight to them, beating his chest with one hand in respectful greeting. "Elvhen," he gasped his report. "Two, a sorcerer and her allan'isa. Bryant and the others are waiting by the stream to learn their business."

"Alarum!" Miriam called. It spread through camp quickly, like a fire on tinder. Young women and their children hurried away from the huts, seeking the hiding spots they'd selected on the rocky slopes. Miriam and the other tribal elders past fighting went with them.

Hawke stayed with the others, all vanished behind the huts, waiting to ambush the interlopers if necessary. Danal loped back down the path, to see how Bryant fared and if there would be battle. There was perhaps a quarter-hour of tense silence before Hawke heard a raven's croak that came from no raven. She relaxed marginally and stepped out into the common area, as several warriors did the same. The elvhen were coming in peace - or so they said. The wilders would not show their true numbers just yet.

They arrived surrounded by the tribe's warriors, her brother Carver among them. Bryant, their war-leader, brought up the rear, keeping a close eye on their guests. They were two, as Danal had said. The woman would be the sorcerer, a slender dark-haired thing who looked surprisingly young. The man with his pale markings and large blade must be the allan'isa.

She watched them with undisguised curiosity. She had seen very few elvhen; the Chasind stayed away from the Korcari Fortress and nearby towns, for the most part. There had been some on the ship that brought her here, but mostly humans of the city, broad-shouldered servants to the elvhen. She wondered if the little sorcerer would be her equal in magic or not. But mostly, she wondered about the allan'isa.

The mage-guardians were figures to haunt the bedtime stories of little children with the Gift. They served the sorcerers, it was said, protecting them from hungry spirits from Beyond. In the extreme, they killed those of their charges who became possessed, using the powers granted by their lyrium markings to quiet magic. But they _also _came for the human mage-children, taking them to the great schools for magic in the Arlathan Empire. And when they emerged... they were changelings, elf-touched, no longer fully human at all. In the thousand years since Tevinter fell, no changeling had ever raised magic against an elf.

She had expected someone more sinister, a sorcerer's lackey with a cruel mouth and hard eyes. Instead, he looked much more like one of their own warriors in such a situation: proud, yet cautious; strong, but not too eager to test that strength. Also, she noted with a small smile, slightly scandalized. Chasind traditional dress seemed to have that effect on city-dwellers. She smoothed the clutch of tawny feathers she wore at her shoulder, feeling vaguely smug.

"They say they are on an errand from the Witch of the Wilds," Bryant said, interrupting her reverie.

Hawke startled. "What? _Here?_"

"Greetings," the sorcerer said. "You are... Chasind wilder folk, aren't you? From the Korcari Wilds in Brecilia. I expect you're here for the same reason I am - the Blight?"

Hawke nodded. "Yes, that's so. The darkspawn were overrunning the Wilds. Many of our tribe died, and there was no choice but to go on."

"I fled as well," the sorcerer nodded. "My name is Merrill; this is Leto." She gestured to the white-haired man. "I nearly died, but was saved at the last moment by the Asha'bellanar."

Hawke made a small gesture to ward off bad luck. They revered the Witch of the Wilds, the mother of their magic, but feared her as well. "And what was her price? That is why you are here?"

"Yes." Merrill reached behind her neck to undo the clasp of a pendant, which she held out to Hawke. The witch took it and examined it. A deceptively simple charm, like any of the ones she was wearing herself, except that it practically hummed with power under her fingertips. "She said I was to find Miriam, the matriarch of a Chasind tribe that would be here on the Sundermount, and to give her this. Then to do whatever she asked of me."

Hawke looked up from the amulet, one eyebrow quirked. "Whatever she asked of you? _Really?_"

"Whatever is necessary to complete this bargain," the allan'isa finally spoke, very firmly.

"So... no walking backwards while singing a funny song?"

"That depends. Are you Miriam?" Leto challenged her.

"I... no," Hawke said, dropping her eyes. One did not play games when the Witch of the Wilds was involved. "Carver!" Looking up, she singled out her brother with her eyes. "Fetch Elder Miriam and tell her what has passed here." He nodded once and left, wordlessly.

Merrill tried her best to make awkward small talk until Carver returned, Miriam in tow. The elder took the amulet and bowed her head. "Yes, I know what must be done," she said, sounding tired. "Hawke, here, has the means to do it. But you must both make me a promise." She looked carefully at both of the elvhen. "Swear that you will neither take her to your Aerie, nor kill her, unless she strike you first."

"What?" White-blue light flickered down Leto's markings. "To the Aerie? Is she a sorcerer, then?"

"A witch's power is needed to complete the ritual _she _requires," Miriam replied slowly. Hawke gaped at her, stunned that she would reveal this.

The allan'isa grabbed Merrill's arm urgently. "We can swear no such thing. Human mages _must_ go to the Aerie when they are found." The warriors standing around them all shifted slightly, and Hawke felt the magic in her boiling.

The sorcerer was having none of it, though. "We _have _to," Merrill said, looking her guardian in the eye. "I need their help for this ritual, or else it... it goes undone. And I've gone back on my oath to Asha'bellanar."

"But..." The warrior sighed and released her arm. "Very well," he relented. "I swear I will neither take this girl to the Aerie, nor kill her except in defense."

"I so swear as well," Merrill echoed promptly.

"Very well," Miriam said solemnly. "Let me instruct her on what must be done."

* * *

><p>Alone in Miriam's hut, Hawke was quietly frantic. "Elder, what were you thinking? Why... why did you - "<p>

"The elf is not the only one with debts to Flemeth," Miriam whispered, making a strong warding sign as she used the Witch's proper name. "We owe her as well, and if this is how she has chosen her repayment, it is not in my power to say her nay."

"As you say," Hawke said, uncertain. "Then... tell me what to do, to make good on this debt of ours."

* * *

><p>The trio made their way back downhill in stunned silence, having just witnessed greater acts of magic than any of them had thought possible. Flemeth had appeared from nowhere, hinted at having cheated death, delivered some vague prophecies, then transformed into an enormous dragon and flew away. Idle chatter seemed out of place.<p>

The tribe had re-assembled, although Hawke noted the absence of several scouts and warriors - undoubtedly they were nearby, watching and waiting, just in case. She took her place at Miriam's side as Merrill offered her thanks and good-byes. The elvhen sorcerer turned to go.

There was a sudden flash of white-blue light, and the allan'isa was somehow _behind_ her, an armored arm across her throat and an open hand pressed against her bare shoulder. And it was _stealing her power_. Spells sparked and died on her fingertips as the mana slid away. She struggled ineffectually, and the pressure on her throat increased until her sight dimmed and blood roared in her ears. She slumped, dizzied; a few breaths later, her sight cleared.

Merrill looked horrified and frightened all at once. Four of the tribe's _visible_ archers had arrows trained on her; she had unshouldered her staff but was not yet casting any spells. Miriam was the very picture of wrath, and Bryant and Carver both looked ready to hand themselves over to blood-rage.

"We _swore_, Leto!" Merrill was shouting. "We swore we'd leave her alone, so let her go and let's go home!"

"We can't leave her out here." Her captor's voice was loud by her ear. "I won't take her to the Aerie, but she cannot be left here."

"Is it worth your woman's life?" Bryant growled, rounding on Merrill.

"I'll... I'll defend myself!" Merrill said a little hysterically, electricity beginning to spark around the tip of her staff. "I did not come to do harm but I'll defend myself!"

_"Stop,"_Hawke croaked, and thank all the shifting gods of the Wilds, they did. She had seen the power the little elf commanded, fighting wayward spirits on the slopes of the haunted mountain, and did not want to see it unleashed here. "What do you mean to do?"

"Only to bring you to the city, to see that you do no harm," Leto said, more quietly, so that he was not shouting into her ear. "I would have you as a guest, not as a prisoner."

Despite herself, she laughed hoarsely. "Is this how you invite all your guests to supper?"

"It did not seem wise to advertise my intentions," he replied matter-of-factly. "Guest or prisoner, I do intend to take you."

"What a cunning little wolf you are," she said, smiling grimly. She caught Elder Miriam's eye. "The danger if I stay is more than if I go."

"We will fight for you, Hawke," Bryant declared, striking his shield with his blade for emphasis.

"I know you would," she assured him. "Which is why I will go. If this _fenris _bites me, I will lead the hunt for him myself. But until then... think of it as scouting the city, Bryant."

"There will be _no _biting," Merrill stated firmly.

"Elder?" Bryant asked, hesitating.

"You are sure you wish to do this?" Miriam asked. Hawke nodded, or tried to. She grabbed at the armored arm under her chin with both hands and tugged insistently. Slowly, he lowered it.

"Much better," Hawke said crisply, a bravado she didn't feel. She was empty, without power, and all her own cunning plans relied on having enough mana. But it would come back, and then she'd be prepared. "Yes, Elder. I will be safe."

"I know you will, child. Gods watch over you, and come safely home."

And so it was that Hawke of the Chasind went to live in the great elvhen city of Stonewall, there at the foot of sacred Sundermount.


	2. Chapter 2

Hawke had no words.

The city had seemed imposing from the outside, its namesake walls rising forbiddingly up, high into the sky. A few towers - one surely the Aerie - were visible over it, all bright shining stone and hard angles. But, from a distance, it seemed... aloof, hard, serene. A mountain made by men.

Then they made their way to the landward gates. It was thronged with people - humans, elvhen, dwarves - all bickering and bartering, shouting and shilling. Hawke had pressed her lips together and continued onward, reminded strongly of the small northern port the tribe had ventured into to hire a ship here. Too many people, too loud and too close, but she could handle it.

Then they were in Stonewall proper, in the Lowtown district, and she felt as if she were suddenly in the center of a maelstrom. The noise was deafening, the bustle of the crowd disorienting. A. merchants _physically_ accosted her, plucking at her arm and waving some _thing _under her nose. Recoiling, she stumbled into a passerby, who shouted something rude about stupid clumsy shemlen, gave her another shove, and kept walking. Regaining her balance, she looked up and -

- Was alone.

Well, not _alone_, obviously, as she was trapped in a throng of what must be every person born, ever, jostled back and forth as busy citizens went about their business. Her first thought was that she could perhaps just go, run and escape but, turning about, she realized she had no idea where the gate had gotten to. Close-set buildings cut off her line of sight; she was not even sure which way the outer wall was. That was ridiculous, it was immense, surely she should be able to see it!

There was the sky. She tipped her head back, got cursed and shoved for blocking traffic, stumbled, recovered and looked again. It would be reckless and foolish and this wasn't the right place or the best time, but she _needed to get out_. She reached for one of the amulets strung around her neck -

"Hawke!" Fenris was plowing his way back through the crowd; he seized her upraised wrist and pulled her along. "Keep up or you'll get lost," he growled.

She felt a momentary, confusing flash of _gratitude _before sniping back, "If you would slow down I could keep up!"

Hawke was somewhat surprised to learn that Merrill lived in Lowtown. Magic was a common enough gift among the elvhen, the sorcerer explained, that it gave her no special standing. She was just one of many Brecilian elves who fled the Blight and ended up in Stonewall.

She was more surprised to learn that Fenris did not live as part of her household. The elves had a good laugh over that, and Fenris, smirking, explained matters as they continued on to his home. While it was true that the allan'isa served as guardians to the sorcerers, and while _some _were bonded to a particular sorcerer, it wasn't as if every elf mage had one, or that the allan'isa were their servants. "Merrill knew the amulet was powerful and possibly dangerous, so she sought my aid. Today was the day I had available to assist her." He chuckled and shook his head. "Creators grant that she never gets into enough trouble to require my constant attention."

The walk up - literally - into Hightown didn't tire Hawke unduly - the tribe had been going up and down the Sundermount for almost a year. But her feet hurt abominably; soft-soled moccasins were meant for walking on earth and the occasional rock, not stone, stone, and more stone. But at least the crowds thinned as they went on, whether because they were entering the more wealthy part of town, or because the sun was going down, she did not know.

Tame plants grew in profusion in Hightown, rising out of planters and beds to soften the hard stone edges of the place. Some streets were entirely shaded by branches, or else by vines crossing on an arbor overhead. But it was all strangely _neat_, almost sculpted, and not at all like the chaotic profusion of life one found in the wilderness. Not that the birds and small animals seemed to care, and indeed she spotted shallow basins of water and seed set out to attract them. Not to hunt - there were no blinds or traps nearby that she could see. Just to _have_ them there, to look at and _enjoy_, like the trimmed trees and shrubs. It made her feel uneasy, but she could not say why.

They came finally to Fenris's home. More stairs, to a balcony that commanded a sweeping view of the city, the walls rising in the distance, and the glitter of the sea beyond that. She gripped the low wall that offered some measure of security against accidentally falling forty feet and stared south, towards the Korcari Wilds and home.

Then she heard the door open behind her, and cursed herself for not noting how he opened it. Another day, perhaps. "After you," he invited her, and she turned smartly and stepped inside, intent on moving as if she had already claimed the place.

She only made it a few feet inside before she stopped, taken aback by the sheer sumptuousness of the place. Long training as a witch and as Miriam's apprentice meant that she did not stare openly in wonder, but rather glared at the tapestry-hung walls, soft carpets (_soft!_ her feet wept with joy), and richly-colored glass lamps as if they had done her some injury. So her prison was _pretty_. Very well.

Fenris came in behind her as an elf woman glided into the room. Despite features Hawke thought were rather homely, she looked quite elegant. Her blonde hair was braided into strands thick and thin, then the whole mass twisted into a neat knot atop her head, and she wore a high-collared gown in a somber grey color - a near match for Fenris's armor, actually.

"Welcome home, messere," she said smoothly to Fenris, showing neither surprise nor curiosity over Hawke's presence. "Your correspondence for the day is on your desk; I believe Commander Athenril has sent you something, and one of Master Ilen's apprentices dropped off a sample of ironbark for your approval. Dinner is ready; will you take it in the solar or in your room?"

"Has Variana eaten yet?" Fenris asked.

"She has, and she has gone out for the evening."

"Hm. Then the solar, I think, and you and your father are welcome to join us. Hawke, this is Orana, who keeps the house from crumbling down around my ears. Orana, Hawke is a... wise woman of the Chasind people who will be staying with us for some time. Would you see that the shrine is set up for her? To stay in, I mean, not to worship in."

Orana's head tilted just slightly to the side. "You said the... shrine, messere?"

"Yes, please, Orana. Put the icons in one of the other rooms."

"Very well." With a small, polite bow, Orana retreated to her duties.

"The shrine?" Hawke asked, none to kindly. If Orana's reaction was anything to go by, these were not typical guest accommodations.

"I didn't want to bring up your fear of heights and embarrass you," Fenris replied diffidently. "The windows in the shrine are small and high-set, so you won't have those dramatic vistas troubling you."

"My fear of _heights?_" Hawke asked in sheer disbelief. "_Heights?_" She _loved _high places; obviously, this was the pretext he would use to place her in the most cell-like room in his home. "How long do you intend to keep this charade up?"

"I _hope _it will cease to be a charade, once you learn more about the elvhen first-hand, instead of relying on bedtime stories and rumors," he sighed. "Now. Dinner?"

Orana's father practically fell over himself apologizing for the meal, explaining that he hadn't known company was coming. And with messere Leto out on business until who knew when, it had to be the sort of dinner that would keep, so it was only a stew, and some cold egg and onion tart, along with some bread. Fenris waved away the excuses, finding the meal perfectly fine; Hawke was hungry enough after the long day to devour the stew, despite the unusual herbs flavoring it, and the bread, although she couldn't quite stomach the texture of the baked eggs. Eggs were a sometime treat, gathered in the spring; you certainly didn't collect enough to pour into a crust and make a dish like that!

It was full-on dark by the time they finished, and Hawke was really feeling the exertions of the day. So was the little wolf, if the slightly unfocused look to his eyes was any indication. As Orana's father cleared the table, he gave himself a slight shake and looked at Hawke. "Would you care to retire, or explore the house?"

She almost answered that she would stay up later, just to keep him up as well, but stopped. It would punish them _both_, as she was truly tired, too. "My room, please," she said, rising.

He escorted her to the repurposed shrine, a smallish room not too much longer than the bed Orana had contrived to have placed here. (There must be other servants about, she thought.) A high shelf ran across the wall opposite the door, and soot marked the wall; candles or lamps for the missing icons, she assumed. One lamp and a striker remained for her use. Distant outdoor sounds filtered down from the small windows near the ceiling. "I _am_ sorry it's not more spacious," Fenris apologized. "Tomorrow, we can bring in a chest or table, if you like."

"Your dwelling seems... most impressive," Hawke said slowly. She'd been turning something over in her mind since their arrival. "Certainly compared to Merrill's. Is this typical for one of your rank?"

The hesitation told her she was onto something. "Not _typical_, no."

"_You _are not typical, are you?" Hawke asked, turning. "We have stories of the allan'isa, how they can destroy even powerful witches and abominations, but no mention of speed and reflex that would make a god of battle envious." She tilted her head. "That must have some cost, to garner such..." She waved an arm at the room. "Rewards."

His jaw set and his eyes hardened, but Hawke did not have long to savor her small victory. "Good night," he rapped brusquely, taking hold of her wrist as he did so. Blue-white light flared -

- She hadn't really _felt _it, earlier, on the mountain, being too preoccupied with being pulled off-balance and half-choked, just noted a sort of discomfort. The mana she'd received since the afternoon rushed down her arm to his hand, like water so cold it felt burning hot, or perhaps the other way around. Tolerable for a few moments, but hardly pleasant. She startled and jerked her hand, once, on sheer reflex, but pressed her lips together and glared at him rather than struggle uselessly. When it was done, he released her and turned wordlessly to go.

"Son of your mother's brother!" she spat after him.

He paused briefly in the doorway and she almost thought she heard a chuckle. Then the door closed.

She _almost_ threw the lamp.

* * *

><p>Tensions eased somewhat after the first week. Orana presented her with clothes more typical to the city, as well as hard-soled shoes for walking on the stone. Fenris took her on frequent outings to see the city and its people. She enjoyed the walks, particularly to Lowtown, where she made a determined attempt to learn the maze-like streets. But evenings at the Hanged Man had to be her favorite thing, because the dwarf Varric was there.<p>

Fenris went to the place rather often, and from the way the other people there treated him, Hawke did not think this was a new habit on her account. Indeed, he seemed to spend more time out of his home than in it, and in two weeks' time, Hawke had only barely glimpsed his sister and still had not been introduced. The food did not compare well to Orana's father's cooking, and the surroundings were dingy rather than elegant, but the mismatched cohorts who clustered around the long table in Varric's room felt like their own small tribe.

Merrill was another regular, as was the commander of the city guard, Athenril. Isabela, a human but also a sea captain, joined when she was in the city, which was irregularly. A few others came and went, but these were the 'elders' of the little tribe, as it were, and Varric was her immediate favorite.

He told _tales_.

And what tales they were! Under the cover of her "seeker of knowledge" identity, she asked him to tell her stories of the city, the war that saw its founding, and the human Tevinter Imperium that had dared to stand against mighty Arlathan. They were dark tales, many of them, about blood sacrifice and unquiet spirits from Beyond. She listened intently, and made sure to remember.

Varric seemed to like her, too, particularly after he heard her call Leto "Fenris." He immediately adopted the nickname as well, to the stoic sighing of her captor. But he had a difficult time finding a moniker for her.

"I already call Rivani Rivani," he mused, "so 'Chasind' would show a lack of imagination. I don't know... you just _look _like a Hawke, you know?"

"I've been told that," she smiled.

She repaid him in like coin for his stories, telling the Chasind's tales of their gods, the Korcari Wilds, and of course, Flemeth, the Witch of the Wilds. She did not tell the story of how the three of them had met Flemeth atop Sundermount, but Varric loved her tale of the Witch's Daughter. It was a lot of hot air and nonsense, basically boiling down to the time Hawke had met a gold-eyed witch woman, alone in the Wilds, who'd been haughty and rude. But she embroidered it with mists and ravens and secret places, and wondered aloud if the wanderer might have been one of Flemeth's daughters, and suddenly it was a fine fireside story.

But it was all to end. She had never intended to remain.

She laid awake late one night, some six weeks after her arrival, clutching that one special talisman, the broad, rounded clay disk with its little stubby neck. En route to the sea crossing, they had met an old dwarven trader; the halls of Orzammar were closed, he said, and so he had bargains to offer. Elder Miriam had encouraged her to buy this, even though she'd scoffed, thinking there was probably nothing but water inside.

She sat up and unlooped the thong from around her neck, then carefully snapped off the clay neck. The strange smell that wafted forth told her that whatever was within, it was not just water. Quickly, she put the disc to her mouth and tipped her head back.

It was the very same sensation as the mana drains the allan'isa subjected her to, but in reverse. Icy hot power pooled in her stomach then shot through all her limbs, climbed her spine and dizzied her. She bit her knuckles to keep from crying out, partly from the burning cold sensation but mostly from the _sheer joy_ of feeling power in her once again, of being as she was _supposed _to be: capable, potent, magical.

She had spent many nights imagining this escape, and she very much wished she could see the look on her captor's face when she'd go. But that would be sheer idiocy: he would end the spell and drain the mana, and she had no more lyrium potions hidden on her person. She'd just have to imagine his consternation in the morning, upon finding an empty room.

She'd not been given her name for nothing.

Hawke lifted her arms and _became_, channeling that old magic that the Korcari witches said was handed down from Flemeth herself. She shifted, changed, became smaller and lighter and feathered, and soon looked out at the room from eyes so much sharper than her dim human ones. She flapped powerful brown wings, hopping from the bed to the ledge where the lamp sat. She eyed the small high _open_ windows above - now not so small, and the height scarcely an issue. She had to spiral, a trifle awkwardly, in the small space to make it, but make it she did, talons scraping on the stone ledge. Without a backward glance, she threw herself forward and spread her wings, gliding out into the night.

- End Act One -


	3. Chapter 3

_Cold. Cold cold cold so cold..._Tarohne's voice was somewhere far away, saying something very urgently. Hawke thought that she should probably be listening, but it was so hard when all she wanted to do was curl into a smaller ball and try to get warm again.

Together with Idunna, they'd found an untouched cell, deep in the Undercity. They'd barely laid hands on the meager, moldy treasures within when the angry spirits appeared, hooded and clawed, blasting them with weakness and cold. They'd fought back with spell and knife and then, finally, turned tail and ran. The shades didn't follow far, just far enough to strike Hawke, in the rear, so hard that she fell and lay still, and then they retreated to their lair.

She swung slightly between them, carried on Idunna's cloak, going... she didn't know where. She was the best healer of the three of them, and they were all out of mana. Maybe Tarohne was beseeching the dark spirits to teach her blood magic again; so far, none had answered her.

She hoped the Void would be warmer than this. Perhaps she'd walk with Bethany and Father again, before their souls and hers returned to new lives.

There was suddenly light, and a good bit of shouting, and a hard surface under her. A voice she didn't recognize, a man's voice, intoned arcane syllables. In the darkness behind her eyelids, she thought she could see a small, distant point of orange-red, like fire; it grew larger and closer and the awful pervasive ache and sting of the cold began to ease. Then the fire flamed up as the chanting reached a crescendo, and the ice around her shattered. Her blood was hot in her veins again; she relaxed out of her tight little ball, limp and relieved and feeling impossibly better. She opened her eyes and saw an unfamiliar man, blond and unshaven, with magic still flickering on his fingertips. Tarohne and Idunna stood just behind him, watching her with expectant apprehension.

"I think you saved my life," Hawke said, dazed. Stating the obvious, perhaps, but that was about all she was good for at the moment.

"I know I did," the man replied with a small smile. "Can you sit?" He offered a hand, which she took. "The shades' attacks are primarily magical; all three of you are a bit scuffed up, so don't go crawling in any more Tevinter midden heaps for a while, but you'll mend."

"Thank you so much, Anders," Idunna said, pressing the mage's other hand as Hawke slowly sat up. "They just came out of nowhere and we didn't know what else to do..."

"Stop disturbing ancient places of darkness, for one," Anders replied dryly. "That _is_ what you were doing _again_, wasn't it?"

Tarohne crossed her arms. "You of all people should understand. We're all at risk of being taken for changelings until we do something! And the ancient Tevinter - "

"The ancient Tevinter got their asses handed to them," Anders finished. "Despite their vile magics. Of all people, I _do_ understand, and it's _wrong_. We'll find a way to live free of the Aerie's threats _without _blood magic."

"It is a tool, nothing more!" Tarohne practically shrieked, and Anders purposefully turned his back on her.

"Hello. I'm Anders. I'm a healer," he smiled at Hawke. Tarohne fumed behind him.

"I'm Hawke," she replied, still a little unsteady.

"Nice to meet you, Hawke. I haven't seen you around before. Word of advice: these two will get you killed or possessed. Find another gang to run with."

"Hey!" Idunna protested. Tarohne threw her arms up into the air. "I'm not going to stand here and get insulted. Hawke, think you can make it back to our camp on your own?"

"Where _am _I?"

"Oh. Um, the tunnels south of the foundries."

"Okay. Yeah, sure. That's not far." Nodding, Tarohne left, pulling Idunna with her.

Anders was regarding her closely. "You're a Chasind witch, aren't you? The fetishes," he indicated her charms and necklaces. "Sort of give it away. You're not seriously chasing after blood magic with those two, are you?"

"You know of the Chasind?"

"I'm from Brecilia myself... although not the hill tribes. City-born."

"You sound it. But you avoided the Aerie?" Hawke allowed herself to sound impressed.

"I did, although that's a long story, one with a lot of running in it... and I notice that you still haven't answered _my_ question." Hawke turned her head to look at her pouf of shoulder-feathers and carefully smoothed them. "I _did_ just save you life," Anders said, quietly and a bit reproachfully.

"You did," Hawke sighed, "and I have little enough coin to pay you. So, answers it will be. I am... curious about the Tevinter. It seems they had many secrets, some entirely apart from blood magic, and those secrets might be very powerful. I'm not so fast to chase after dark spirits when there are so many other things to learn, first."

"So... not _yet_?" Anders asked, one eyebrow raised.

Hawke shrugged. "The Avvar make no eternal oaths for fear of tempting Fate. Wise, no?" She caressed the ancient tome laying next to her on the table; they must have tossed it onto the cloak with her. "I don't know what I'll find in here; who knows where it will lead?"

"You speak Arcanum?" Anders asked, surprised.

"What?"

He laughed. "Have you opened that book?"

She had not. Carefully prying apart the musty leaves, she found page after page of unfamiliar script and strange diagrams. "No!" she cried in dismay.

"What were you expecting?"

"...Runes?" she said, feeling foolish now. The Chasind had little use for writing, but the witches and shamans encoded certain mysteries in runes. She'd just assumed the ancient humans had done the same, but clearly... "Maybe Idunna or Tarohne..."

"I doubt it," Anders said cheerfully. "Almost no one speaks Arcanum. The elvhen did their best to destroy the practice. You have to have a very special sort of education to have any kind of experience with it at all. Some elvhen scholars of ancient history. A few crazed dragon cultists here and there. And Grey Wardens - like me."

Now it was Hawke's turn to raise a skeptical eyebrow. "A _human _Grey Warden?"

He nodded. "Anything to beat the darkspawn, right? I was in the wrong place at the right time, got recruited. They don't exactly take 'no' for an answer. And it kept me out of the Aerie a bit longer."

"So... can you read this?" She pushed the book at him, and he glanced at a few pages.

He nodded. "I can. It's a different dialect than I'm used to, but I can make it out." He looked up at her, brown eyes solemn. "But I'm not going to translate it if you're going to help Tarohne with her mad schemes."

Hawke tilted her head. "We protect each other. I cannot stay down here all alone."

"Then stay here," Anders said. "The Chasind witches are legendary herbalists. I bet you could pull your weight here in the clinic."

It was tempting. Tarohne had grown more and more unbalanced over the months Hawke had known her, and Idunna appeared to be eager to follow her. But if this were a healing sanctuary... "I... also have trouble following me," Hawke admitted reluctantly. "An allan'isa, here in the city, from whom I escaped. He has gone to my tribe several times, and I have seen him lurking about the Undercity, and I think he is still looking for me - although it has been almost a year."

"I would be a hypocrite," Anders said softly, "if I turned away any because the allan'isa were pursuing them. Be welcome here, Hawke... but please, do be careful."


	4. Chapter 4

For a time, life in the clinic suited Hawke perfectly. She did useful work, and in return, their patients offered what food or useful items they could spare. The barter system was very much how the Chasind dealt with each other, and it felt more familiar and right than the exchange of coin in the city above.

She learned more about Anders and how he'd come to be a Grey Warden. He'd been finally caught by the allan'isa and was being taken to Brecilia's Aerie when his captors stopped at a Warden keep because of the poor weather and rumors of darkspawn. The rumors were true, and his captors all killed in a darkspawn attack. The Hero of Brecilia herself arrived at the keep and, to Anders's surprise, recruited him rather than let other allan'isa take him away.

"But she's an elf," Hawke said, surprised, "and a sorcerer."

"The Brecilian Aerie was attacked from within," Anders told her. "By one of their own changelings. I don't know how he could have... probably with help from Beyond. He corrupted the Aerie's eluvian to let demons cross the Veil. The Warden Commander had to clean up the mess, and in so doing, learned a lot more about what they _do_ to humans there. I always thought the sorcerers all knew, but apparently," and his voice rose, coloring with anger, "you can be so _blind_ that you can live and study alongside a man who has had his will _shackled_ and never realize something is wrong. _If_ you're an elf."

And that was why Anders remained here, in the Undercity, when any number of wealthy patrons would have willingly hidden him in a nest of comfort to acquire the benefit of his services. As a city-born man, he had seen many friends taken away for "schooling" at the Aerie, released later as changelings. Hawke had met a few by now; any one might just be an example, a single individual who venerated elven culture and traditions, who admired the elven way of life, and thought that the Arlathan Empire was the pinnacle of history, to be defended and perpetuated. But it wasn't just any single one; it was _every_ one, every human with magic who'd gone into an Aerie. And they'd tell you, enthusiastically, how _wonderful _the Aerie had been, and how much they'd learned there, and how entirely grateful they were for the experience.

"That's how they caught me," Anders said glumly, poking at his porridge with a spoon. "A... friend of mine. Karl. They'd taken him and when they were done, he brought them right to my door." His voice thickened with emotion. "He was _so happy_ to do it. He really thought he was doing me a _favor_, and his eyes... Creators, he looked like _I_ had betrayed _him_ when I tried to fight. My Karl was... just... _gone_."

He dropped his head into his hands, shoulders shaking. After a moment's hesitation, Hawke pushed her chair back and rose, only to kneel next to him, a hand on his upper arm. She startled when Anders suddenly struck the table with two fists, staring dead ahead at the wall. "And I knew," he said, swallowing and hardening his voice, "that it would be _wrong_ to let that happen again. After I did what I could to repay my debt to the Warden Commander, I left, and came here. And I've been doing what I can for human sorcerers. But... it's not enough. It's _never _enough. And..." His shoulders sagged and he shook his head just slightly. "I don't know what to do," he admitted in a very small voice.

"We never thought much, about the city folk," Hawke said quietly. "I suppose... I suppose we thought that if you didn't want things like this, you would leave. But," she glanced around the dingy room, "it's not that simple. I understand that now. I... don't know what to do, either. But I want to help you."

He finally turned to look at her; his eyes were damp with unshed tears. "Thank you, Hawke," he said, reaching out hesitantly to cup her cheek. "It... means a lot to me, to know that you're not just here for the Arcanum."

She gave an embarrassed half-smile. "Oh, I was. At first. But..." The smirk faded. "Not now."

His golden-brown eyes searched hers. "Hawke..." he said uncertainly.

She dipped her chin just a little so she could look up at him, one eyebrow lifted just a hair. "Anders?" It was an invitation and challenge both, and she could hear her pulse in her ears as she waited to see what he'd make of it.

"It'll be dangerous. _I'm_... Hawke, there's some things I haven't told - "

"I don't care." Wings mantled, plummeting, faster and faster, for the sheer joy of it -

He suddenly reached up with his other hand, catching the back of her head and leaned down to kiss her, soft but ardent.

_Challenge accepted. _Hawke straightened, pressing him up and back slightly, returning the kiss harder and deeper. Anders made a sound of surprise and the hand on her head tightened in her hair; she rose up from beside his chair, bending over so as not to break the kiss, and straddled his lap. She nipped at his lips before leaning forward to taste the salt skin of his neck, her hands going to the fasteners of his jacket. "I've wanted this," he panted by her ear, sliding his hands across her back and pulling her close to him.

"You should have said something," she chided him with a small bite, and smiled when his breath hitched.

"It's complicated," he mumbled. She sat back, regarding him with another raised brow. "I mean, there's... _issues_, and things and..." She crossed her arms, grabbed the hem of her shirt and pulled it off over her head. "Um."

"I can make it simple." Hawke palmed one heavy breast. "Mouth goes here."

He looked up at her almost worshipfully as he obliged her. She groaned happily and ground down into his lap, eliciting a slightly muffled, strangled sound.

And then the sparks flew.


	5. Chapter 5

Anders had been getting stranger, more secretive, since they found the latest Tevinter codex. He'd flipped through it, then told her offhandedly that it was in an older rustic dialect that she probably wouldn't understand, and looked to be mostly about the properties of crystals anyway. She was interested in the properties of crystals - the Chasind frequently carried natural gems as charms - but not as interested as she was in the treatise on staff construction that she was working through. She hadn't had one of her own since she left her tribe.

But the tome kept roaming through the clinic, showing up on various bedside tables and shelves, until she understood that Anders was reading it when she wasn't with him. He denied it - strenuously - when she asked him about it idly one say, and thereafter the book remained religiously on one shelf.

Except when she woke in the night and found him hunched over it, reading by a dim white-blue glow of magic.

Finally, one day while _he_ was out, she picked the thing up and opened it. It was not in a strange dialect, but it was about minerals. She read it carefully, and was fully absorbed when Anders arrived home.

They had a shouting match about his deception that ended up, typically for them, in bed. She wasn't shocked by the book, or alarmed at its instructions on how to combine certain minerals, elemental magic and force magic into army-destroying explosions. That sort of knowledge was _why she was here_, and she was only hurt that he had kept it from her.

Together, they whispered about what they might destroy: the Arcane Warriors? The Emerald Guard? The barracks of the allan'isa themselves?

Anything seemed possible.

There was a problem. They had one bomb, but could not agree on the target. Anders argued for the Aerie; Hawke, for the allan'isa barracks. He broke off in the middle of a loud rant about the power of symbolism and iconoclasm, looked at her for a long, silent moment, and then shook his head. "Fine. We'll do it your way."

She should have been suspicious.

In the morning, he was gone. So was the bomb. A note, written in Arcanum, explained that the biggest, the most powerful thing they could do would be to destroy the Great Temple, the center of the city's civic and religious life. It would state, unequivocally, that humanity rejected their elven overlords and all their ways, and that they would be fearless in attacking them.

Even spending most of her time in the Undercity, Hawke was still Chasind enough to know that this day was the summer solstice. The Great Temple would be thronged with people - human, elven, all ages, all walks of life.

She stared blindly at the wall for a long, long time.

It was complicated.

* * *

><p>The dwarf slid back a bit from the table as she approached, cloaked and hooded and in a hurry. She planted both hands flat on the table, to show that they were empty and to catch herself. "Varric," she panted, out of breath, from her mad dash here.<p>

"What the blazes? Hawke?" She had rarely seen the storyteller at a loss for words, but for once he seemed flummoxed.

"Varric, a warlock is going to destroy the Great Temple today. You've got to warn people, stop him, or it's going to be a massacre."

"Slow down, Hawke." Varric leaned forward, brows knit together. "Destroy... Creators, _how?_And when? And who?"

"Damn it," Hawke muttered, running a hand over the top of her head. He'd have no idea of who to look for. But she did. _And_ she knew how the device worked, metaphysically, and knew which spells would lessen or maybe even negate its impact. But she hadn't intended to help, just to warn, then to wash her hands of it. Varric knew people. He could handle it. But yes, he _would_ need a little more information to go on. "Human, blond, sort of a furry, feathery coat thing. He'll probably try to get it as close to the altars as possible, seeing as he's looking for _symbol-_"

Varric was suddenly no longer looking at her, but rather over her shoulder. She turned before she even heard the fast, light footfalls -

- exactly in time to take a hand through the chest.

She tried to scream, but it came out as a reedy wheeze, air whistling around the blockage in her windpipe. The world narrowed to the blazing pain in her chest and the angry green eyes glaring at her from under dark brows. Blue-white light flared around the edges of her vision, and she tried to scream again as her mana burned suddenly, running in ice-hot streams to the center of the pain. This was it; he was killing her, and she could only be glad because when she was dead the _pain would stop._

And then, abruptly, it did stop, but she was still alive.. She had somehow already sunk to her knees and tipped sideways, slouching to the floor in shock. She could breathe freely again, and the pain - aside from the empty ache where her power should be - was gone. But she was too shaken to try to rise immediately.

Above her, an argument was unfolding. " - reports that she's involved with insurrectionist elements of Undercity!"

"Funny, because she was just trying to warn me about an attack on the Great Temple today, elf!"

"What?"

"You all right, Hawke?" Varric knelt next to her and, surprisingly gently, helped her to sit. "Tell Fenris here what you told me."

"So we can be sent on a goose-chase away from the actual attack, no doubt," Fenris snorted.

Hawke, leaning on Varric, shook her head. "I wouldn't have risked _this_ for that," she said. She made herself lift her eyes from the floor to meet the allan'isa's gaze. "_I_ wanted to attack your order's barracks. _You're _the stealers of children, the wolves at the door, the proper target. He's... going to attack the Great Temple. A huge, terrible explosion of magic. A slaughter of innocents. I... I can't..." Her throat threatened to close up as the reality of her betrayal hit home. She blinked hard and swallowed, suddenly determined not to show any more weakness. "It's not just, and I can't do nothing while it happens," she said as levelly as she could.

His skepticism wavered but did not vanish. "That sounds... plausible. But I need to be certain," he said flatly.

Hawke shook her head in frustration. "We're wasting time! How much more certain can you be? I've _told_ you what's going on and unless you're secretly some sort of blood mage..."

His lyrium brands flashed again. Varric had barely begun to protest with a heated, "Hey!" when Hawke half-scrambled, half-thrashed her way behind him, clutching at his leather duster as she cringed into a ball. "It's true, it's true!" she screamed. "I swear on my father's soul, it's true and I'm trying to help, don't please don't please don't it's _true!_" She was babbling, trying desperately to find the right words that would keep him from _doing that _again.

"Now _that _I believe."

"You can be a real asshole sometimes. You know that, right?"

Hawke risked a peek over Varric's shoulder; the lyrium glow was gone. Fenris was pacing, face thoughtful. "Tell us what else you know, Hawke, and quickly."

Traitor that she was, she did.

* * *

><p>It was almost too easy. A squad of a dozen allan'isa waited for her to find him in the crowd. Invisibly tethered to Fenris by a small vial of her own blood, she slipped past revelers to tap him on the shoulder. He startled guiltily and turned. "Hawke! What are you doing here? Don't try to stop me," he warned her. "The device is in place; I can set it off at any time."<p>

"It won't be as effective if you don't have my force spells to focus it," she said, forcing a smile.

"You... came to help?" He sounded astonished and delighted. "I thought... I mean, you wouldn't even agree to the Aerie..."

"You were right," she said. "It just took me too long to realize it. Where's the device? I can't help if I don't know where it is."

"I love you _so much_," Anders beamed, and Hawke's face froze a bit. "I can't tell you how glad I am, to know that you're with me on this. I know it's... well... but it's _necessary_, Hawke."

"Of course it is."

"Listen to me, preaching to the choir. Nerves. It all starts here and now. The device is under the altar to Elgar'nan, there in the center."

"The god of vengeance? Huh. Of course." Hawke craned her head from side to side. "I can't get a good line from here. There's too much in the way. Can we... can we go over to one of the arcades?"

"I suppose... but don't blow it just yet, Hawke. I want to wait for the ceremonies to begin."

"Right." The arcade was emptier, more open, with fewer people to panic and stampede. "Anders?"

"Can you get a good line from here?"

She felt empty and cracked inside. "Anders... I'm so, so sorry."

"What? Hawke, what are you - _!"_

They called it 'the wrath of Elgar'nan;' so terribly appropriate, she thought bitterly, as the column of white light washed down and around them. She was momentarily dizzied, but that was all; _her _mana had already been drained. Anders's was burned out of him, a massive blow that left him crumpled on the ground. Lyrium markings still alight, the allan'isa advanced out of the crowd; several stopped to reassure the festival-goers that all was well, and the rest collected the stunned warlock.

Hanging limply in their grasp, he gaped at her. "You... Hawke... you..."

She was crying, tears finally spilling down her face. "So sorry," she whispered.

She felt more than saw Fenris step in close behind her, led unerringly by the tug of the phylactery. The other allan'isa began to move away, taking Anders with them. He looked around himself, eyes rolling. "Not... not the Aerie! No! Dread Wolf take you, just kill me first, please! No!" An allan'isa struck him in the back of the head, knocking him unconscious, to keep the revelers from becoming alarmed.

Hawke covered her face with her hands and wept.

After a few moments, she felt the weight of a gauntleted hand on her shoulder, the prick of metal talons, and the low hum of lyrium brands. "It's time to go," Fenris said pitilessly behind her. "I've made arrangements for your new accommodations."

Hawke was dully surprised to be led back to Fenris's lavish suite of apartments. She'd assumed a dark cell underground. She'd have welcomed it, in fact; punishment for her betrayal.

But no; just one of the guest rooms, with the windows covered over. Lamps gave light instead. "I still don't know how you got out the first time," Fenris drawled. "But now it doesn't matter." He patted the pouch where her vial of blood was. "Ironic that it was a Brecilian who taught me this technique. They used it on the battlefield, during the Blight, to keep track of their sorcerers. Run, and I'll find you and drag you back by your spine. Behave, and perhaps we can both have some semblance of a normal life."

Hawke didn't flinch at the threat. She didn't intend to run.

- End Act 2 -


	6. Chapter 6

At least, not at first.

She was despondent for months, wallowing in guilt over Anders. Leto felt... strangely cheated. Over a _year_, he had spent every available moment hunting her. He'd stalked her tribe's settlement until he determined to his satisfaction that they were not, in fact, hiding her. He'd spent _far _too much time in Undercity, in the grime and filth, trying to cajole or intimidate contacts into giving him information. She was there; he learned that much. But she was a wraith or a shade, disappearing every time he'd gotten close.

Possibly worst of all, he was still making things up to Orana. He'd assumed that she'd helped, somehow: unlocked the door, looked the other way... something. He'd raged and threatened; she and her father had actually left for a time. But he could scarcely manage his affairs without her, and they needed the income, so an uneasy detente was reached. He'd become convinced, slowly, that he was wrong, and admitted as much, but the situation still felt broken. He had said some truly wretched things...

...and as the days and weeks had rolled past, and he passed up jobs to follow up on leads, because it was his _duty_ to secure her, he decided that she _owed_ him. He had been kind, as kind as the situation had allowed, and she had taken advantage of it. Well, no more, and if it distressed her... _good._ It was her own doing. And when she finally realized that, and understood how she ought to behave... well, then she could wait some more, until _he _finally decided she'd earned a privilege like a night at the Hanged Man.

But the sad creature locked in the guest room was hardly the insolent Chasind witch he remembered. At first he thought perhaps he'd truly damaged her when he phased into her, but she did not flinch from him when he came, twice daily, to drain her mana. She didn't seem afraid - just listless.

It was hardly the victory he'd hoped for. What pride was there to be had in having defeated _this_?

At length, he began to grow concerned. As summer turned to autumn, and then to the early days of winter, Hawke grew gaunt and pale. She was wasting, but the healers he'd sent for could find no sickness. They considered it a melancholy and recommended good cheer to counter it. So Leto began inviting Varric and Merrill around to see her.

It seemed to help, if only by inches. Varric was preparing to leave one evening when he paused and peered at Leto. "Have you ever thanked her?"

"_Thanked _her? For what? Making me into a common bounty hunter and jailer?"

"No, Fenris." Varric used the nickname she'd coined to needle him, he knew. "For turning in her lover to keep the Great Temple from getting blown sky-high."

"Her... lover?"

"Yep," Varric said, fastening up his jacket against the cold. "You two don't really talk at all, do you?"

He crossed his arms. "She has nothing to say to me."

"I'll bet that's because you never ask," the dwarf said smugly. "Seriously, Fen- Leto," he amended. "She gave up a lot to come and find me. It might do her some good to know that it's appreciated."

"But..." He sighed. "Very well. I'll... say something to her."

He opened the door to find her seated in a chair, a drop spindle dangling from the thread she was spinning. She'd asked for _something _to do, and spinning always needed done. "Hawke," he said curtly.

She didn't look at him, just gathered up the spindle, thread and roving, then set them aside and held out one arm.

"I'm... not here for that," he said, and then she _did_ look at him. "Varric thought we should talk." She stared at him flatly. "You did the right thing," he tried. "Many hundreds of people were saved. If I didn't have to _hide_ you, you'd be a celebrated hero of the city for what you did."

"You are taking me to the Aerie." She didn't phrase it as a question, just a dull, leaden statement.

"No! That's not what this is about," he said crossly. "Although Creators know why you persist in refusing."

"Did they take Anders to the Aerie?"

He frowned. "Surely Varric told you..."

She shook her head just slightly. "I wouldn't let him. You tell me. Anders. What happened."

He took a breath and nodded, unsure if she would find the news welcome or unwelcome. "Executed for treason against the Arlathan Empire and the attempted murder of its citizens."

She leaned back in the chair, closed her eyes and the barest touch of a smile curled her lips. "Good. That's what he would have wanted."

He stood there in silence for a long moment. That feeling of being cheated suddenly surged again and he asked, angrily, "So now what? You just lay down and die?"

"What," she asked quietly in reply, "exactly, do I have to live for?"

He crossed the room in two long strides, grabbed the front of her shirt and half-lifted her out of the chair. Her eyes flew open in surprise and indignation. "I _also_ swore," he growled, "not to kill you except in self-defense. I will not permit this."

Her lips quirked in her old habit of defiance. "Then give me something. My magic."

_"No."_

An idea lit in her eyes. "Books! I learned to read the Tevinter tongue. Give me books so that my mind is not driven mad by this enforced idleness! Do you have any idea?" She got her feet under her and stood. "Nothing but four walls and string! Day after day of nothing but a silent visitor who plunders my strength. Hours and hours to sit and wait for the next tender visit!"

"Do not mock me," he warned, letting go of her shirt with a small push.

"Give me books."

"I don't know if I _have _any Tevinter books. They were mostly destroyed after the Imperium fell." He paused. "Do you read the elvhen tongue?" When she shook her head, he shrugged. "Then I could teach you to read that."

She looked at him sidelong. "Or Varric could."

He waved dismissively, irritated at the suggestion for some reason. "As you like. Contrary to how it must seem, I do not want for you to remain a miserable prisoner all your days."

"And what exactly do you expect?" she demanded.

He raised a hand, one finger hooked to make a point. But, even angry, some part of his mind realized that the honest answer, _That you'll shed your savage superstitions, take schooling at the Aerie, and become the foremost human mage of the city!_, was utterly counterproductive. So he merely swatted the air, shaking his head in frustration. "Pah!"

"As I thought."

"Enough," he rumbled. "I will get you your books." And he turned and left, closing the door behind him.

_That_ was much better.

* * *

><p>As the days grew longer again, Hawke's disposition improved. She did indeed prefer for Varric, or Merrill, or even Orana - who had finally forgiven her for her escape - to read with her. In fact, she made a <em>point<em> of it. _They_ were friends, more or less. _He_ was her jailer.

He arranged for some of the human sorcerers he worked with to visit, so that she could meet them. That had been a bad idea. They were articulate, enthusiastic, perfect ambassadors for the Aerie - and on exactly those grounds, she rejected them as magically-altered, mindless changelings. Why wouldn't they support a superior system? he'd wanted to know. What was so terribly suspicious about realizing that a better way of life was better?

If she had an answer to that, somewhere inside all the elaborate curses she hurled at him, he couldn't fathom it.

Grousing over wine with Varric about it, the dwarf had looked thoughtful and said he'd write some letters. Leto had no idea to whom or to what end, but it was best to just let Varric do these things when he got ideas. And letters sounded harmless enough.

He thought, since he had the phylactery now, perhaps it would not be too rash to take her, escorted, out of the house. Maybe visit the Aerie, if she would go, not to turn her over but to let her see that it wasn't a grim dungeon of a place, but rather a house of learning with more books than she could read in a lifetime. Knowing how well the suggestion would go over, he brought a new book with him and went to her room in the middle of the day.

The door was closed, but the latch was sprung.

_Impossible! She can't have slipped away again!_ He went to yank the door open - and it didn't budge. Locked from the _inside?_

He didn't even wait to try to make sense of it; he willed the lyrium in his flesh to life, ignoring the burning pain that came with it, and phased through the door.

_Varania._The woman who said she was his sister was there, closely inspecting Hawke, who stood unnaturally still. Varania looked up, a surprised "oh" on her lips, and he called up the power the allan'isa termed 'Dirthamen's Secret.' That god knew the knots of magic - and how to untie them. White-blue light cascaded like mist throughout the room.

Varania had started to explain herself. "Leto, you never told - !" Hawke did not let her finish.

The Chasind woman outweighed the elven sorcerer by at least three stone. She bore Varania to the ground, clawing at her face and tearing at her hair, spitting vile names and more curses from her endless supply.

"Leto! Leto, get her off me! _Ah!_ Stop it or I'll - " A faint crackle of magic was answered by the heavy, meaty sound of a punch. Varania's spell fizzled, and she just tried to get her hands up in front of her face instead. "Help! Get her off! Get her off!"

"Since when do you have permission to go poking around in rooms that I've locked?"

"Leto, I - _uh._" Hawke grabbed the elf's head in both hands, lifted, then slammed it into the floor.

Leto started to push himself up off the door when, to his surprise, Hawke came flying at _him_. If he hadn't been so smugly amused by Varania's come-uppance, he surely could have caught her wrist. As it was, she scored a ringing slap before he grabbed her. "What's this, now?" he growled at her.

_"Mana,"_ she spat at him, tears welling in her eyes. "If you are going to trap me here with a _beast_ like that on the loose, then have the decency to give me some means to defend myself! Mana, or perhaps a blade!"

He frowned, looked past her to Varania, who was slowly sitting up. "Did she hurt you?"

"N-no," Hawke admitted, glancing back herself. "She... was just... talking. Threatening."

"This is outrageous!" Variana weaved slightly on her feet, hand pressed to one eye. "If you're not _sharing_, it's one thing, but to allow your shemlen toy to assault a member of your household - "

He stopped her with a stare that promised much, _much_ more pain if she kept on talking. Without looking away from her, he wrenched free the slip of wood she'd used to jam the door shut, the pushed it open. "Get. Out."

Huffing indignantly, the sorcerer hurried to comply.

_"Vile creature," _Hawke breathed after her as she went. She tugged her arm lightly in his grip and, once Varania was out of sight, he let go.

"I did not think she would flout my authority," he said stiffly. He rarely asked Hawke's pardon - it didn't seem appropriate - but this was a failure on his part. "I do apologize."

"Did you plan this?" she hissed suddenly, and he startled. "That was most excellent timing on your part. Is this some new game?"

"What? No," he grimaced shaking his head at the thought. "Varania is... undisciplined." That was putting it lightly. He'd only looked for elvhen help around the house after that scandal with poor Hadriana.

"Undisciplined? She's demented!"

"She is my sister!" he retorted sharply, defensively, real anger there. Although not, if he were honest, on Varania's behalf.

Hawke fell a step back, looking at him slantwise. "For all that you treat her like a stranger," she said cautiously, curiously, as if trying to put the pieces together. "And one you don't much like."

"She is that as well," he admitted, more sullenly than he meant to. "You recognized from the first day that my talents came with a price. I do not... remember anything from before they augmented my tattoos, including Varania. But," and he found a little piece of indignation, "she _is_ my sister."

"And what of this?" Hawke gestured widely with her arms. "She came into this room and - " She broke off and crossed her arms. "I am not safe here," she said simply.

"I will see to it that you are," he promised, mentally cursing Varania for this.

Hawke shook her head. "I wish I could believe you." She looked down at the floor. "I really do."


	7. Chapter 7

That night, he woke suddenly in the darkness and _ran_for Hawke's room. No time for weapons, no time for armor; if he were too late, he would be fighting barehanded. He threw the latch and slammed the door open.

In her bed, Hawke screamed and pulled the sheet up to her chin. "What are you _doing?_"

His lyrium tattoos flared in the darkness. "A demon," he panted raggedly. "There was a demon." It was his duty, his calling, to defend sorcerers from demons, and his markings gave him the slightest warning when one was nearby.

"There _was_," Hawke agreed. "She offered me my freedom."

"Did you - " He approached, hand alight. If she were possessed, she would be overfull of mana.

"Of course not!" she snapped, voice dripping scorn. She snarled as he brushed her shoulder, peeking out from under the sheet, but was too proud to flinch away. "Losing my mind to free my body seemed a poor trade."

It was the truth - there was only a small reserve of mana there, only as much as he'd expect from half a night's rest. The lyrium pulled it hungrily from her, the burn changing to...

He willed himself to ignore the sensation. It wasn't appropriate to enjoy the situation. Unlike _some_people in the house, he had self-control.

"Still," Hawke continued, once he was done, rubbing her shoulder with reproach, "she gave me some things to think about."

"I don't like the sound of that," he rumbled.

"Stay up and worry if you like," she invited, rolling onto her side, back to him. "I'll tell you about it in the morning."

He frowned. This seemed off. A trick or ploy? He crossed the room to one of the two chairs in it and dropped into one to stand vigil.

Hawke did not ask him to go; neither did she sleep, not for some time. Thinking about... whatever the demon had given her to ponder, he imagined. But she did slip back to the Fade eventually.

And, as the first rays of dawn were lightening the cracks in the covered windows, so did he.

He only realized he'd been dozing when the world changed between one blink and the next. A second ago, all had been still and dark; now, there was a dim light and the distant sounds of Orana's father preparing the morning meal. Much more startlingly, there was a nude human woman sitting back on her haunches in front of him, arms crossed in his lap, head resting on her arms.

"Good morning," Hawke purred.

He sat very, very still in the chair. "What. Is this." His voice was so flat, dwarves would have clamored to build something on it.

She sat up, bringing her forearms up so she could rest her chin on her hands. "I thought about it, and I decided. I have no magic, I have no weapons. But I do have this lovely body," she sat back farther, and he was pleased that his eyes never once left her face. "The spirits of temptation offer all manner of delights to get what they want. I'll give you what you want, until the day comes that in your wanting and taking, you become careless and slip. And then I'll be free."

"Don't you think," he asked dryly, "that you're... sabotaging yourself by telling me this?"

"No." She rolled back further and stood, pacing. "You're not _stupid_, Fenris, just _willfully blind._ If I just came to you, eyes aflutter, you would suspect, and if you suspected, you would not act. Well, now you _know_. And you can take whatever measures you think will help. I'm just willing to bet that one day, you'll be careless with them."

Dark and unruly thoughts scrabbled behind the walls in his mind. They weren't running loose yet, but he was uncomfortably aware of them again. "You don't think I'll take you up on this, do you?"

She stopped and tilted her head at him. "Do you not like women? Or humans?" She palmed her two generous breasts. "I thought our 'exaggerated' characteristics were supposed to appeal?"

"It's entirely... no," he said, as much to himself as to her, finally rising from the chair. "I am, as you enjoy reminding me, your jailer. Given that..."

"Don't take this from me!" Hawke spun on him, pointing, voice suddenly raw with equal parts anger and desperation.

"It's a false hope," he said quietly.

"You don't know that." She gestured to herself. "I am willing to take the chance." Eyes narrowing, she advanced on him, broad hips swaying. "Are you?"

Something behind a wall leapt up and scrabbled to get over at the challenge in her voice, her steps. He held up a hand, palm out; she walked into it, til it was pressed against her breastbone. "I told you before," he said, voice still unusually quiet, "that you do not know what I require in a lover." The lyrium flashed to life, burning almost gently, and _that_gave her pause. The wolf-thought jumped down from atop the wall and scented the air.

Looking uneasily at his arm, _beautiful defiance softening with the barest touch of fear, like feather-light blades_, then back up at him, she asked warily, "You don't... put your hand through people, do you?"

"Only if I'm feeling particularly _demented,_" he answered, voice low rather than quiet now. "I could easily forbear." Recognition flickered in Hawke's face at the word she'd used to describe Varania yesterday, followed quickly by doubt. The wolf-thought howled at that, but he had enough discipline to mentally kick it back over the wall. "So you rethink your plan," he said, dropping his hand with the smallest smirk. "That is the wisest course, surely."

Hawke glanced away momentarily, then looked back, jaw set. "No. I see your raise," she used the language of their long-ago card nights at the Hanged Man, "and call."

"A dangerous game, Hawke," he murmured, finally letting his gaze roam freely over her body. "If the stakes become too high, you must tell me if you wish to fold. I am not my sister."

"Just show me your damn cards. Unless you're bluffing."

And all the walls came down.

He had not deactivated his brands; the familiar pain was low, unpleasant but not intolerable. The blue-white light shone through the nightshirt and loose pants he'd arrived here in, offering more illumination than the weak morning sun, mostly blocked by the shutters that could not open. He circled her, slowly, watching the play of light and shadow on her skin, admiring its smooth softness.

She turned as he circled, her attitude of defiance slowly shifting to puzzlement edged with unease. "What are you doing? I _said_, show me your - "

He lunged, with all the unnatural speed his lyrium brands granted. Hawke's head thudded none too lightly against the wall as he pinned her, body to body, one fist around her wrist and a forearm across her throat. She tried to twist away on sheer instinct; he let her try. It wasn't a proper hunt if the prey didn't at least _try_to flee.

"First mistake I don't make," he growled in her ear. "Forget that you are a sorcerer." He opened the brands to drain her mana - all of them, and slowly. Rather than the intense icy-hot tingling rush down his arm that he had felt all the mornings before, when he'd drained her with a single touch, and quickly, this was a gentler wave across the entire front of his body, everywhere he touched her, energizing and invigorating and so very _pleasurable_. Hawke stiffened under him, her back trying to arch, and he chuckled darkly. "Be careful, Hawke, or you'll forget how much you hate that."

He slid the arm at her throat to the side, until his hand found her jaw. He pushed up and over, baring her neck, and bit. Not hard enough to break the skin, but more than hard enough to mark. Hawke jerked and trembled, so he moved his mouth a little lower and did it again. And a third time, because it amused him.

He removed his face from the bend of her neck to look at her. Her head was tipped back and away, but he could see that her eyes were closed and her breath was coming short and fast. Fear, he wondered, or desire? The wolf-thoughts did not care, but the allan'isa did. He let go of the wrist he held; it hovered against the wall for a moment, uncertain what to do with its newfound liberty. He ran his hand down her side and was rewarded with a small noise in the back of her throat; when he paused by her hip-bone, he felt her buck slightly beneath him.

He thought that answered the question satisfactorily enough. "Well, you weren't lying about being willing," he chuckled again. When she didn't say anything, he ran his free hand along the seam of their bodies again. "No retorts? No witty comebacks?"

Her eyes snapped open. "I haven't had a man in half a year. Still waiting to see if I'll have one in the next half year."

"Impatient, are we? Good." He stepped back, bent slightly down and grabbed those marvelously full hips, lifting Hawke up and over his shoulder. She squawked at the sudden indignity, and her breath puffed out again when he slung her down onto her bed. He jumped lightly after, landing with his hands pressing her shoulders down into the mattress.

He paused again, just long enough for her to wonder why, then lowered his face very close to hers. He was certain she could feel the heat of his breath when he said, "And the second mistake I don't make is playing when you deal." Abruptly, he sat back, got up, and went for the door.

"Wh-what?" Hawke sat up in the bed, eyes wide in the weird white-blue light. "I thought... aren't you...?"

"In my own good time. Not yours," he replied, with considerably more carelessness than he felt. "You'll have to wait a bit longer yet, Hawke." He opened the door and left without a backward glance. He fitted the latch into place with particular satisfaction...

...and then practically collapsed onto one of the plush benches here in the hallway. A quick glance left and right assured him that no one was about. Loosening the drawstring at his waist, he drew himself out. In a moment, he came hard, to thoughts he had been so careful not to think since Hawke had regained her spirits. The hallway was still empty as he used the hem of the nightshirt to clean up before securing his waistband and heading for his room.

There would only be one first night. He intended to make the most of it.

He had to tell Orana what was going on - not in lurid detail, of course, but she was an intelligent woman and could fill in the missing bits on her own. If he was needed for an emergency - an abomination on the loose, a sudden critical ritual being performed at the Aerie, any call from his commander - he would be in Hawke's room. For anything less, he was not to be disturbed. She noted it blandly, as if it were another night at the Hanged Man or a social function elsewhere in Hightown. It was not her job to have _opinions_, after all.

He spent most of the day trying out thoughts for the evening. It must be planned. It would keep her from tempting him to... whatever folly she hoped to provoke. And it would keep the wolf-thoughts in check. He could easily hurt her, badly, and that would be unforgivable.

That is, he had a responsibility toward her, and the abrogation of that responsibility would be unforgivable. Yes. That was what he meant.

* * *

><p>Author's Note:<p>

This chapter was lightly edited to better comply with 's posting requirements. The original section can be found at dragonage-kink .livejournal .com/ ?thread= 11377328# t11377328


	8. Chapter 8

He opened her door easily, without theatrics, and shut it firmly. She'd lit a lamp against the twilight, reading at the small desk provided for that purpose. She looked up, eyebrows raised - perhaps surprised that he'd come in armor. "Are we not playing another hand, then?"

He didn't reply straight away, looking thoughtfully around the room. The wall next to the bed seemed ideal. He uncoiled the length of soft red rope that he carried, grasping it in the center. Lyrium flashed, and he reached up and phased his hand into the stone wall. He let go the rope and withdrew, leaving it embedded in the stone, the ends dangling freely down the wall.

"It's my deal," he said finally, surveying the result. "Now, what was the first mistake that I don't make?"

He turned; Hawke was regarding the hanging ropes dubiously, but smoothed a sly smile over her features when she caught his eye. "If those are for me," she inclined her head toward the rope, "why not wait a while? If I can't gesture, then I can't - "

He was across the room before she could finish, planting one hand on the desk and swinging his legs over it - and into her. She tumbled from the chair with a gasp of surprise, then a grunt as he landed heavily atop her.

General Huon of the Arcane Warriors had been deeply involved in the research that had given him his brands. He knew about their skills, their magic - most of which required not the smallest movement or slightest sound. They simply _willed themselves _half-into the Beyond. He was not willing to bet that Hawke did not have some similar trick - perhaps whatever she had used to escape before?

Not that the thought didn't appeal - it did, dangerously so, as he started the evening drain. She shuddered under him, eyes shut tight and jaw clenched against the possibility of making any sound. To do this when she was at full power... he could draw it out for perhaps an hour or more, make her twist and writhe and gasp even as she cursed him; he might even stop, partway through, to see just exactly how jealous of her power she _was_. The thought that she might beg him to continue was more electric than the mana coursing through his brands...

_And that's why it's the first mistake,_ he reminded himself. _She's a witch. Don't be stupid._ The tattoos flickered and went out as he pulled the last of the power from her; she arched up into him slightly, as if trying to follow it.

She was wearing a plain shift, one of several he'd bought for her. He sat up, back on his haunches; she had only propped herself up onto her elbows when he leaned forward to grab the thin linen in either gauntlet. The metal talons pierced the fine fabric easily, and then it was a simple matter to tear it apart. It was a simple pleasure, a trivial act of destruction, but the sound and sensation of the dress coming apart in his hands made him growl in the back of his throat.

Hawke glanced down, bemused. "I thought this sort of thing only happened in Varric's - _oh!_" He pushed her back flat on the floor with a rough shove between her breasts, then fell forward again, pushing her chin up and over to reveal that long expanse of _throat_, the side unblemished by his morning attentions. "Your armor," she protested in a mumble, squirming uncomfortably under the ridges pressing into her soft body.

He paused, panting soft, warm breaths over her neck, and turned his mouth slightly toward her ear. "Folding this hand already, Hawke?"

"No, it's not that, but - "

"Then hold your tongue!" he snapped, grinding down into her. He bit, right where the shoulder met the neck, just once but hard, eliciting a gasp that was not _entirely _pained from her.

Fenris, Little Wolf. She'd named him well, even if for the wrong reasons.

He released her chin abruptly and rolled off of her, grabbing one wrist as he went. When she didn't rise quickly enough, he hauled her to her feet, steered her past the desk _(perhaps another night...)_ and over to the wall, where the red ropes dangled. She just turned her head before he pushed her front-first into the wall, the talons of his gauntlets tightening on her shoulders. He ran his hands down both her arms, the edges of the metal skating over skin, straightening and raising them until he could secure her wrists with a few deft knots. Not too high - tonight, he didn't want to see her skittering about on the balls of her feet. He just wanted her arms out of the way, leaving everything else so very _exposed_.

He raked his claws back down her arms, hard enough to leave pinked skin in their wake. She pressed harder into the wall as he brought them down her sides, then slid in and up, trailing marks along either side of her spine. Time to explore.

He scratched and pricked from shoulder to shoulder, scalp to tailbone, noting her reactions. A hard drag on the outer curve of her shoulder got a gasp that was pleasantly surprised; a similar touch on her flank earned a flinch and a whimper. Pointed, repeated taps right at the base of her neck caused, after a moment, a delightful sort of squirming dance. Just above her tailbone was a curious thing: just barely _not_ touching it sent her into a twisting frenzy, so much so that he had to pin one of her legs to the wall with one of his... but _actually _touching and scratching it did little at all. With one hand wrapped in her hair, talons dragged across her scalp garnered a whine that was just on the edge of protest, broken with slight hitches when a hair caught in one of the joints of his gauntlet.

One his curiosity here was satisfied, he unbound her wrists and repositioned them behind her back. She started to move them, once, until he pressed his shoulder into her back and threatened, "Don't," in her ear. Her breath caught in her throat and she stopped.

There was more length in the rope now than he wanted; he turned her around, then phased the cords into the stone so that there were just a few inches of slack between the wall and her wrists. Then he stepped back to have a look.

He was expecting - fearing - anger, or perhaps a sort of grim triumph at enduring his attentions. And that would have ended it, because if he had wished to _torture his prisoner_, he would have done so by now.

But, impossibly, there was neither in her face. Her cheeks were flushed and her lips were parted slightly as she panted, staring at him with eyes blown wide by desire and sparked with challenge.

He smiled, just barely, at that challenge, welcoming it. _Another round of cards, then._

He stepped close, his eyes never leaving hers. He hooked his talons lightly on her collarbone and began another slow exploration; narrow trails pinked around the outer curve of her breasts, crisscrossed over her stomach and back again, stretched down the tops of her legs. Small, needy little noises sounded in the back of throat, even - _especially_- when she occasionally twisted or flinched at a dig or pinch.

Before he was even aware of it, he had one hand tangled in her hair, the other gripping the side of her face, pressing her with a hard, devouring kiss, his blood pounding in his ears.

_The third mistake I don't make..._

This was not a part of the plan.

He pulled away, dropping her face, and stalked a small circle in front of her. More dangerous than he had thought. Best to call her bluff, see her fold, and end the game.

She straightened, watching him with some confusion as he circled, alternating dark glances at her with flexing his hands. Hawke leaned forward purposefully, making a show of straining towards him. "Come back," she entreated him, a request that was neither a demand nor a plea.

So he did, in two long, springing strides that knocked her back again. He pressed his left hand, fingers splayed, against her breastbone; he brought his right up, almost level with his shoulder, elbow up and back. "Don't. Move." It rumbled out more of a threat than a warning.

Hawke's eyes went big as she thought she divined his intent. "You're not going to - "

"No."

She swallowed hard but nodded, was still under his hand.

He had thought for a long time about this moment and how he wished to see it happen, as he did not expect to have the opportunity again. He set the three long fingers of his right hand next to his left, right at the place where her breast began to swell. He canted his hand so that the fingers lay in a line tilted just past vertical, and _dug in_.

Hawke inhaled sharply, but said nothing, and he was intent on his work before him. Slowly, he pulled toward the outside of her body, tracing up and over the curve of her breast. Smooth skin slid easily under his fingerpads, only to be caught by the dark metal talons just past his fingertips. Delicate, yielding, the skin parted even more easily than the fabric of her dress, its soft satin giving way inexorably under the sharp pressure. She was shaking, silent under the gently violent caress. Under his left hand, her heart hammered in her chest.

He completed the arc, still watching half-mesmerized as the beads of bright red blood welled up, all along the three shallow cuts. One droplet and then another started to roll, slide down and around her breast, beautiful and savage markings.

She was panting, fast and shallow. He set his jaw; _this_ was surely the end of it. Like the others he'd met over the handful of years he could remember, she'd be afraid, or disgusted, or - knowing Hawke - simply enraged. Tearing his gaze away from the marks he'd left (_**mine**_), he looked up at her through the white fringe of his hair.

Mouth slightly open, eyes half-lidded and unfocused, she... didn't _look_ angry. "Hawke?" he asked, uncertainly. Truth be told, he hadn't planned much past this point, expecting a vicious tirade by now.

She blinked, focusing on his face. "The other one," she whispered hoarsely. "Do the other one."

It didn't make sense. "Are you _mocking _me?" he demanded. Trying to see how far he would go, what he would do, so that she could throw it into his face later?

She shook her head, bewildered - at his reaction, at her own? "It's a... a better kind of pain?" Her tone made the explanation into a question. When he didn't move, she arched her back, just the little more that she could, under his hand. _"Please. _I want it."

Watching her warily this time, he switched hands, holding her still with his right and carving an arc into her with his left...

...oo00O00oo...

They both stilled, their mindless and frantic movements coming more slowly, less strong. One of her legs, the unsupported one, had already slipped to the ground, and he carefully eased the other down. She leaned into him, heedless of the armor she'd complained about earlier, as he tugged the knots behind her loose. On a sudden gallant impulse, he lifted her in his arms and carried her to her bed, laying her gently on the sheets.

They regarded each other for a long moment in silence, until Hawke reached up to tug at his hand. He hesitated, but sank down to kneel beside her bed. "Orana was to leave water and such on the bench outside," he said quietly. "I should get them."

"In a minute." Hawke had a distinctly unfocused look to her as she reclined, utterly spent.

Another pause, during which he looked over the bleeding scratches he'd left on her and wondered, not for the first time, what was wrong with him. "What did you mean, a better pain?" he finally asked.

"Mmm? Oh. Oh." Hawke blinked slowly, eyes searching the ceiling for words. "It hurts. What I did to Anders, what he did to me. The loneliness. The emptiness, especially that... so long now, so empty, it's hollow and dead inside. It's... better, easier, more solid and real, when the body hurts. Like a flower opening."

"Emptiness? You mean - "

"The drains, Fenris, yes."

She sounded almost indifferent, basking in the fading glow of her climax and the soft pulsing heat of her wounds, but the words hit him like a dwarven brawler's fist. He knew the drains caused momentary discomfort - he felt it, too - but not that the loss of mana upset her so that _this_ was _better_. "Let me get the water," he said abruptly, covering his confusion with action.

Water, rags, bandages and salve; all as requested. It was late now and the house asleep, so he darted across the hallway half-naked to retrieve them, then returned to the room. Finally, he removed the gauntlets; they would only be in the way for this job. Her expression slowly sharpened as he carefully cleaned her chest, smoothed the elfroot salve over it, and, sitting her up, wrapped it loosely in bandages. The cuts were not deep, after all, and had largely clotted already; this was to keep them clean as much as anything else.

"The Avvar make no oaths more than seven or eight years in length," she observed finally. "They say it tempts the gods to pledge oneself to something forever."

"I am not an Avvar hillman," he gritted, flushing, chagrined that she'd seen his thoughts in his face. "And my oaths were not conditional."

"What if you were lied to?"

"What is the point of 'what if'?" he asked harshly, standing up suddenly. "This was folly. I should go." He reclaimed his leggings, pulled them on angrily, then snatched up his gauntlets and stalked to the door. He paused before going through it. "If it is worth anything to you, I am sorry."

"Thank you." She sounded uncharacteristically sincere for just a moment before continuing in a deeper purr, "But I think we've found how you can make it up to me..."

Unsettled, he left without looking back.

...oo00O00oo...

**Author's Notes**:

This section was edited down a lot, but I think it still contains everything that's story-critical. The original MA version can be found at: .com/ 4016.h tml ?thread=11626160 #t11626160 and .com/ 4016.h tml ?thread=11634096 #t11634096 (URL corrected).

The red rope is supposed to be a nod to the red wrist-band in DA2, but you can't mention red rope on the k!meme without a hat tip to Silver and Scarlet (tannufilling .livejournal .com/, some NSFWery towards the bottom of the page).


	9. Chapter 9

He spent the predawn hours tossing and turning, talking himself into and back out of continuing this strange liaison with Hawke. If she only enjoyed it because it somehow _hurt better_ than her captivity, that seemed wrong. But Mythal's mercy, she didn't _sound_ like someone who wasn't enjoying herself. Creators knew he took pains to hide from his predilections; perhaps she was doing the same? On the other hand, she had plainly said this was all a plan to make him falter, and it seemed frighteningly likely that she might succeed. But he was stronger than she was, physically, so if he just continued to take basic precautions...

He had settled, for the moment, on _bad idea_ when it was time for the morning drain. He opened the door and found her already awake, wearing the shift from yesterday, held barely closed with a few pins. She looked... more vibrant, somehow, than he'd seen her since... since she'd returned. "Good morning," she said pleasantly, and opened her arms wide.

"Good morning, Hawke," he returned soberly, reaching out with one hand as the brands flashed.

She stepped back - had she ever tried to avoid a drain like that before? - and looked _disappointed._ "Can't we do it the fun way?" she asked, cajoling. "If it must be done, I'd _much _rather have it that way."

He paused. Every request seemed like it might be part of a plot, now. But it seemed unnecessarily cruel to do the harder drain... He reached quickly out, grabbed one wrist and pulled, this way, then that, quickly spinning Hawke about so that her back was to him, arm behind her back. He wrapped his other around her, pinning her other arm to her side and holding her close enough that _all_ of his lyrium brands would draw out her mana.

She sighed into it, pressing back into him eagerly; he resisted leaning forward to nip at her ears or neck, so very close, as the warm waves of mana flowed into him. The sudden grind of her hips should not have surprised him, but it did. "Hawke," he said, his tone a warning.

"But it feels _good_," she cooed. "What will we do when it's done?"

"Nothing," he said flatly. "I have some tasks to take care of in the city." The brands flickered and went out, and he released her.

She turned around slowly, eyeing him boldly. "Your markings... they are beautiful," she said thoughtfully. She looked him full in the face and raised an eyebrow. "How do you think they would look on me?"

His mouth was suddenly very, very dry. "What?"

She held out an arm, as if he hadn't seen one before and needed and example. "You could carve them into me," she said, voice low. "Those long, lovely curving lines... that would be a sight, wouldn't it?"

"I have to go." And he went, quickly, straight back to his room to take care of the hard, hot erection that idea had given him. _Folly. It's folly and you know it. Stop._

But the vision wouldn't leave him. Vibrant silks in the Hightown market were transported, in his mind's eye, to Hawke's room, as brilliant braided cords about her arms and legs. Every apothecary shilling balms and salves conjured up the wounds he might apply those salves to. The human women who loitered by the stairs to the docks and beckoned him were calling him back to the house, where she was waiting. And, stopping by the barracks to check for jobs, the less-ornate tattoos of his fellow allan'isa were each stripped from their skin and placed on hers, in brilliant red instead of cool white-blue, variations on a theme.

He wasn't going to stop.

He would have to be careful.

* * *

><p><em>A week or two later, in Lowtown.<em>

"Isabela, I have a... a favor to ask."

"I'm not staying, Kitten." Isabela rolled over in the narrow bed and draped her arms over Merrill's bare shoulders.

"That wasn't what I was going to ask, although I wish you would."

"I'm quite fond of you, Kitten, but not fond enough to give up a ship where I'm the queen for life in a city where I'm a flat-eared second-class slattern," Isabela smiled sadly. "But you can come away with me. You should, the word at the docks is that a ship is finally coming for those qunari. Mark my words, it'll be more than one ship and it'll go badly."

"Go away with you?" Merrill sounded surprised. "Wouldn't I be useless on your ship?"

"Kitten, you throw lightning around like a rich penitent throws copper pieces at beggars. In my line of work, that's _always_ useful. In addition," Isabela murmured, leaning forward to place a line of kisses on the elf's jaw, "to your other, far more _fun _skills."

"Oooh. Oh, oh!" Merrill was caught between giggles and moans. "Isabela. Isabela, wait!" She pulled back and put a finger on the pirate's nose and looked sternly - well, almost sternly - into her eyes. "I'll consider it. But I have to ask you a favor."

Isabela leaned back slightly and smiled. "Well, out with it, then."

"It's about Hawke. You remember Hawke, don't you?"

"The Chasind girl with the lovely round little arse, wasn't it?"

Merrill nodded. "Well... see, she's actually a witch, and I had to ask her help, but she couldn't help us until we promised not to take her to the Aerie..."

"We?" Isabela interrupted.

"Fenris and I," Merrill amended. "And that put him in a bit of a bind, you see, and now... oh, it's just a terrible situation, Isabela, but I thought you could help."

"I'm not known for being helpful, kitten," Isabela frowned, "but I don't like the sound of where this is going. Tell me more."

"I _said_, Messere Leto is not to be distur- _ah!_"

One solid punch from Isabela laid the well-groomed steward out on the floor. "All the more reason for me to disturb him, then," Isabela muttered. According to Merrill, the allan'isa _didn't_ spend much time with Hawke. Why was Orana telling a different story?

_Knife-eared toffs think any woman they fancy is up for taking._ Her anger was especially hot because she'd _liked _Leto. He'd seemed an all right sort. If he wasn't, that counted as tricking her, and Isabela did not care to be tricked.

The latch was on the outside of the door, and open: no kicking it in dramatically, then. When a slight, subtle tug didn't do anything - _jammed shut from inside?_ - she levered a dagger between the door and frame, leaned on it to open things up a bit, and _yanked_, letting the door slam open behind her.

And she stopped, frozen in the doorway, because what was inside was so much _worse_ than anything she might have imagined. Hawke was bound to the bed, and Leto was crouching over her like some sort of ghoulish animal, his gauntlets curving like claws. Blood was everywhere - glistening on the gauntlets, all over the bed, all over _Hawke_- even an incongruous smudge across her cheek and nose that Isabela vaguely registered as the other woman craned her neck to look toward the open door. Leto looked up as well, dark brows drawn down into a scowl, until they lifted in evident surprise.

"Oh, you _bastard_," Isabela said, giving both her daggers a slow twirl. "Don't you worry, Hawke; this one's free."

Both of them in the room started talking, loudly, at the same time, but Isabela wasn't listening closely. She figured it was the general "it's not what it looks like!" from the one, and the "slit his belly open!" from the other. She booted a smoke grenade into the room, and the dance was on.

Leto was easy enough to find in the haze, once he lit himself up like spirit fire on the mast in a storm. She circled silently around as he twitched to and fro, trying to sense her presence, then lifted both daggers on high and -

_"STOP."_ To her surprise, Isabela did. Hawke's voice was pitched a bit lower, and the word was projected like an officer's command through battle-fog. "Both of you, STOP. _Thank _you, Captain, but we're doing this my way."

The smoke was thinning a bit; Leto swung around with both hands at chest height, ready to either claw or block. Isabela side-stepped, not wanting to be a sitting target. "Hawke, I think you're being awfully particular about your rescue," Isabela sniffed. "You've made me go and miss a perfectly deadly backstab."

"You have to fight him to take me, and then either you're badly hurt or dead, or he's dead, and I'm trying to avoid that, all right?"

"I don't _believe_ this!" Isabela feinted with Heartbreaker; Leto caught it on his armored forearm and brushed it aside... but he didn't follow up with a strike from his other hand. "You want me to walk out and let him keep torturing you? Did you drive her mad already?" she accused the elf in front of her.

"One, Varric has a better plan and two, this is foreplay," Hawke said bluntly.

"I... all right, what?" Isabela withdrew a pace, because something that was strange bedroom behavior to _her_ was worth getting some distance from. Leto, seeing her back off, spared a glance over his shoulder at Hawke. "_Varric _has a plan?"

"Varric has a plan," Hawke repeated, sounding awfully composed for a bleeding woman tied to a bed. "The plan has to work around elvhen politics, so even I don't have the details until he gets back from his trip. If it works, you'll be the first to know, Fenris," she said, "and you'll let me walk out of here."

"I will?" He was watching Isabela again, so she caught the skeptical eyebrow.

"That's the idea."

"And this is your idea of a good time?" Isabela asked, disbelief in her voice.

"You know, _I_ could never understand how you could drink that swill until your body rebelled and threw it all up again."

Isabela sighed. "Well... damn me. I finally get a chance to play at rescuing the fair damsel and she doesn't want to go. No hard feelings, Leto?"

"It... is an understandable mistake," the elf said slowly. "Which is why I had asked Orana to turn away any visitors."

"Oh. Yes. Orana. Do give her my apologies, will you?" Isabela flashed a brilliant white smile as she backed out of the room. "Hawke, you are _sure_ about this?"

"Positive. But - I _am_ touched, Isabela. Really."

"Maybe next time, sweet thing," Isabela chuckled. "As long as I don't have to touch you like _that_."

And then the pirate queen was gone.

And with her, the mood. Fenris - Leto had begun to adopt the nickname himself, at least with Hawke; it seemed _fitting_ - undid the knots holding Hawke to the bed, brought the water and salves, and bandaged her in meditative silence. For her part, Hawke looked... satisfied, perhaps even content. "Can you believe it?" she asked, finally. "_Isabela _came to rescue me. I suppose Merrill must have told her."

"I hope you'll pardon me if I'm less than charmed that my friends seem to favor you over me," he said dryly.

"Your friends are good people," Hawke countered. Before he could even properly bristle at the implication, she added gently, "and so are you."

He turned to stare at her incredulously. "Again, I must ask: are you mocking me, Hawke?" It did not seem possible that after all this, she would think him _good_. "I keep you here against your wishes, hurt you for my pleasure, and you call me good?"

She laughed easily. She had, he noticed, been laughing more, smiling more these past weeks. It made sense now - she was expecting Varric's return, and her freedom. "You are not a harsh captor, and you _are_ an honest one. Many would have, I think, found a way to go back on their word by now, and rid themselves of a troublesome and melancholy guest. And as what we do it not only for your own pleasure, but mine as well, why should I not think it good?"

"You called it demented," he pointed out.

She raised both eyebrows and looked at him seriously. "I did not invite her. She did not ask. She bespelled me and threatened dire things, whether I would or no. You, I invited. You, said I might end the game, fold and call, as I wished. There is the difference."

He grunted; it was a good answer. "Yet you would leave."

"Living in a single, albeit lovely, room for the rest of my days has a limited appeal, yes."

He shifted uneasily on the edge of the bed. He didn't want her to go. How much of that was this obsession of his, and her willingness to entertain it? How much was... something else? "Where would you go?" he asked at last, deciding that it was a safe enough thing.

"Back to my tribe," she said, the answer ready. "Miriam will pass Beyond one day, and there's no one else to stand as healer and shaman... not anymore," she added quietly.

"Not back to Darktown? Isn't that where you were?"

"Oh, yes!" She clapped her hands in feigned excitement. "I can find others hiding from the Aerie and we can build _lots_ of terrible weapons to bring the Aerie down!" She smiled brightly, then leaned forward confidentially. "_Now _I'm mocking you."

He scowled at her, not amused. "It seems strange to me that you would return to a life of stick-and-mud huts, hunting and gathering, now that you've seen what a city has to offer."

"I don't hate it as much as I did," she said, considering. She leaned in a little closer, studying his eyes. "But truly, now: What life would I have, here?"

_You could stay with me._ He thought the words over before speaking. What would that mean, really? A kept shemlen woman... they were not uncommon, but they were hardly respected, not like she would be as a tribal elder. And she would need to continue to hide her sorcery. And neither of those things would be acceptable to this woman. So he dropped his gaze, swallowed and said instead, "Let's... not get ahead of ourselves. I still have to hear this marvelous evidence Varric is supposed to have that will upend my allegiance to my people."

He felt her sit back, but couldn't bring himself to look up and see the disappointment in her face. Pushing himself off the bed, he headed for the door. "I should go." When she didn't say anything, he added, "Good night, Hawke."

"Good night, Fenris." He heard it softly behind him as he shut the door.


	10. Chapter 10

The atmosphere at the docks was electric. Today was the day the qunari were expected to arrive, to take away their shipwrecked brethren.

Leto (_yes, it was better to be Leto, out here in public_) had frankly not paid the godless northern folk any attention. They mostly kept to their quarters, and it was the job of the Primus to handle any trouble. They had their own sorcerers, but certainly needed no allan'isa to protect them. The qunari took their own measures for safety - hideously barbaric, primitive measures, he thought. But they had no need of his talents, so he had not been called on to assist them.

_It would figure_, he thought with irritation, _that Varric's ship would come in **today** of all days. He must love the crowd waiting for him._The trading vessel was already docked, its lines being made fast and an inspection being done before anyone was allowed off - enough time for the harbormaster to send him word that the ship was here. He'd paid the man well enough to ensure that he'd done so.

Ridiculous? Perhaps. But this "plan" made him somewhat uneasy, and he wanted to make sure he intercepted Varric as soon as possible.

_Varric might help Hawke, but he's your friend. He won't do anything that would hurt you._

Of course, but... he needed to be certain. That was why he was here, among the sorcerers and guards who were on hand to ensure that the qunari departure went smoothly and without violence. Three of their large ships floated in the harbor, away from the docks; a longboat had been sent out, to arrange the docking.

_Yes, that twist in your gut is all about checking up on **Varric**. Creators, at least be honest with **yourself.**_

Shut up, Fenris.

Finally, the gangplank was lowered and passengers began to come ashore. It wasn't long before Leto caught sight of Varric's unmistakable swagger. He stared steadily at the dwarf and, sure enough, Varric caught his eye and waved, grinning.

"Fenris!" he hailed him. He still loved the nickname. "Just the elf I'm looking for! You will not believe this shit, serah. Except that you will. Change is coming, my friend."

"What are you talking about?" Leto asked, already irritated, as he fell into step beside Varric.

Their progress was slow, as the assembled dignitaries didn't particularly feel like making way for a bunch of folk off of a common ship from Brecilia. "You remember I started writing letters a while back? I was... chasing down some rumors, stories that came out of the Blight. Managed to strike up a correspondence with a certain Arcane Warrior-Grey Warden lady you may have heard of."

"The Hero of Brecilia?" They were almost at the street that would lead up past the harbormaster's office and to Hightown. Why should he be surprised? If anyone could charm their way into the reclusive Grey Warden's good graces, it would be Varric.

"The very same. I'm sure you heard about the corruption that infested the Aerie there - "

"We had briefings."

The press of people was less here; they were already passing the harbormaster and the qunari compound, where the warriors waited in patient rows for their ship to come in. "Well. According to Warden Niera - who was there - and I would like to point out that this is extremely sensitive information, which if spread about the wrong way could cause all kinds of trouble for the Arlathan Empire..."

"What did she _tell _you, Varric?"

"That Hawke's right," the dwarf said, getting to the point. "The whole thing was kicked off by a group of human sorcerers who were objecting to - "

The crowd behind them screamed.

They both turned; people were pointing in horror to the qunari ships. Leto saw a flash of purple and gold - the Primus's colors, his livery - as a body was thrown overboard, into the longboat, where another already lay.

"That's not good," Varric muttered. "That's really, really not - "

The ships suddenly developed holes in the sides, as if they had window shutters that were opened. A troop of Emerald Guards was already trying to force its way uphill, toward the qunari compound, when the little windows erupted in gouts of flame and smoke.

The compound gates swung open, and the qunari within charged.

* * *

><p>Hawke sat on the edge of her bed, twice a bundle of nerves. She knew Fenris had left to get Varric - he'd told her - and she hoped and prayed that the dwarf had been able to confirm those terrible rumors about the Brecilian Aerie. Waiting to hear about that was bad enough - but now strange sounds like thunder were echoing up from the city below. She didn't know what it was, or why it was happening, and that made her more anxious.<p>

She jumped when her door flew open unexpectedly, framing Orana. "The qunari are attacking the city," she said levelly. "We may or may not need to evacuate. I am not going to even try to do that with you in chains, as I have more important things to worry about. If you come with us, you'll have what protection Messaire Varania's magic offers. If you wish to go your own way, go."

She stepped away from the door and Hawke moved to follow. "What? What are you talking about?"

Orana turned, mouth pressed in a tight line. "The thunder is the sound of qunari weapons. From the front door, it seems that they're attacking the Aerie first, from their ships, but there are sounds of battle and magic by the docks."

Hawke's jaw dropped. "Fenris is - "

"At the docks," Orana finished for her grimly. "I am aware. You should pack what things you will wish to take, if we attempt to flee the city."

_Not again!_Hawke turned, running her hands up into her hair. She'd heard tales of the qunari, from Varric (where they were unstoppable juggernauts of war) and from Fenris (who thought that because elvhen treatment of human mages was better than qunari, that made it good). It felt like the escape from the Wilds all over again, the tribe running from the endless waves of darkspawn...

Except there weren't endless waves of qunari. They didn't claw their way up out of the ground; they were down by the docks, and in some ships, and that was it. It wasn't that hopeless, and the city had guardians. The elves of Arlathan had destroyed the humans of Tevinter, after all - they were not entirely unable to defend themselves from this.

But she took Orana's advice, rolling her few possessions into a blanket and securing it with strips torn from her sheets. On instinct, she changed her shift for her old Chasind leathers, clothes she had not worn in some time. She paused, smiling for a brief moment, at the red scratches down her arms and legs, in various stages of healing... his markings.

She heard an unexpected voice behind her, and the room began to spin dizzyingly. Disoriented, she turned, but suddenly her knees buckled, too weak to hold her weight. She fell forward, catching herself on her hands, and looked up.

Varania was looking down at her, smiling unpleasantly. "I _owe_ you," she hissed. "And I'm going to collect."

Hawke didn't move. "Touch me and I will kill you."

"Really? And how will you do that, exactly?" The elf woman kicked Hawke in the stomach, sending her sprawling on the floor. "I'd paralyze you again, except then I won't be able to hear you _scream_." She knelt, straddling Hawke. Hawke tried to focus on that red hair, although it was difficult with the ceiling wheeling above her. "I see he's never marked your pretty _face_. I think I'll start there." Something silver glinted in her hand, and Hawke felt cold metal pressed to her temple.

"I warned you," she said tightly, as Varania began to cut.

"The city is in chaos and Orana will never dare contradict whatever I say happened to you," the elf laughed. "You're mine - weak as a kitten and, thanks to dear brother, no magic."

Hawke smiled, jaw clenched. "No mana," she corrected.

Varania, intent upon the line she was carving past Hawke's eye and then across her cheek, spared her a brief scowl with slitted eyes, before returning her attention to her work. "No mana, no magic," she reasoned - then stopped, eyes going wide, as the blood trickling down Hawke's face began to disappear, rising as a red mist.

* * *

><p>They did not try and stand alone against that grey and red tide. Fenris and Varric fell back, across the street to the quartermaster's office.<p>

The qunari were not after them. The first unit out of the gates swept downhill, toward the Emerald Guards struggling up it. Sheltered behind stone walls, Leto shrugged his blade from off his back as Varric swung Bianca smoothly into position. "That's... a lot of qunari," the dwarf said hesitantly.

Leto paused. It _was_ a lot of qunari, an army of them, and there was an army of elves to face them. And _he_ had dependents back at his home, including powerless _(by your hand)_ Hawke. Was his responsibility _there_ or _here?_

A ball of fire erupted among the Emerald Guards, and he had his answer. There was at least one saarebas about, and the qunari war sorcerers could do amazing damage if they weren't stopped - _fast_. He scanned the rear of the unit and quickly found the saarebas and his keeper. "Cover me," he rapped at Varric, before darting out into the street, lyrium brands alight.

He did not have to close with them to call down the wrath of Elgar'nan, the column of pure white light that would burn the mana out of a sorcerer, leaving them weak and stunned. He could hear a victorious shout go up from among the Emerald Guardsmen who saw it. The saarebas staggered and sagged, even as its keeper cast about in surprise.

Leto was on it a heartbeat later, greatsword cleaving down in a wide arc that smashed clear through the poor bound thing's collarbone, slanted through the body and just cleared the spine. He wrenched the blade back, pulling it from the body, and turned to face the incoming arvaarad.

He was not _quite _fast enough in retrieving his sword; he had the briefest impression of grey skin and red paint, and then he was flying. The gigantic maul was phased mostly into his chest; if he hadn't had the brands activated, he would have been utterly crushed. The impact still sent him crashing against a wall, and as he slid to the ground, he dimly thought that perhaps contesting two-handed strength with a man four times his size was unwise.

He rolled to one side, but had not yet gotten his feet back under him when the qunari was suddenly _there_, giant mallet pulled back for another crushing blow. He concentrated, putting as much energy into the brands as he could and hoping for the best - when Bianca's familiar percussive rhythm rang out. The qunari's shoulders jerked as the bolts caught him just left and just right of his breastbone. The maul slipped from slack fingers as the giant slowly toppled to the ground.

Leto was back on his feet, bringing his blade up to guard as some of the back ranks of the qunari realized there was an enemy behind them. "They're getting ready to send another unit out," Varric shouted. "This is a bad place to be right now! A very bad place!"

"We go up," Leto decided. There was no way to reach the elven warriors except through the qunari, and they wouldn't make that. They could go up here, maybe circle around to another set of stairs, come back down and join the fighting from there.

"Shit," Varric cursed behind him as they neared the top. "Leto," he called, regret in his voice, "their ships are attacking the Aerie."

"Then that's where we'll go." That was his job. Protect the sorcerers.

_There are two back at the house..._

"And do what?" Varric asked. "We can't fight the ships, not from shore. Those things are magical, you can't dispel them."

"Not magical?" He turned to stare out at the sea, as the second qunari unit marched smartly into the street below. Fire, smoke, thunder... and then, hundreds of yards away, holes in the walls of the Aerie. Truly, he had never heard of a spell with that much power working from so far away.

...which meant that the Aerie's sorcerers could do little against their attackers, while the qunari could continue to rain fire down on them.

His eyes went wide with horror. "When they finish the Aerie..."

"The city's next," Varric confirmed grimly. "Try and take a boat out there and they'll just send it to the bottom with one of their weapons."

"So how do we _stop _them?"

"I don't know if we _do_."


	11. Chapter 11

She had learned _things_ in her months in the Undercity, poring over ancient Tevinter scrolls. She had not summoned the demon who came to tempt her with freedom, but when she bested its will with her own, she did not simply banish it. She compelled it, took from it what it had tried to use as bait, and _then_ cast it back into the Beyond.

It was a heady power that required little practice; the demon imparted skill as well as power, as if Hawke had been studying this path for years instead of weeks. So she knew that she could kill Varania slowly and very painfully, roiling the blood in her veins as her muscles seized in paralytic agony. Hawke was not by nature inclined to cruelty - the Chasind were a proud folk, but peaceful these days, and when their warriors killed they did it as cleanly as they could. But the magic fed on pain and fear as much as on blood; she could feel how much more the power she could take would be, if she drew the act out. It would be no less than Varania had planned for her.

At her thought, Varania rolled off of her, her snarl replaced with a blank, expressionless mask. Hawke struggled until she was sitting up, then, panting, reached over to take the knife from Varania's unresisting fingers. She held it to her lips, considering. There was war in the streets, she'd need power...

...she'd have to explain to Fenris...

Abruptly, she plunged the blade down into one staring green eye.

It was a quick death, and not even a very bloody one; she felt only the slightest trickle of power come back to her. She scowled, understanding finally the extent of the trap: that damning knowledge that more energy, more power, was always there, always ready, if she was just willing to _take _it.

She pulled the blade free and wobbled unsteadily to her feet, waiting for the entropic magic to fade. _Now what?_ She wasn't entirely sure how Orana would react to this, but she expected _not well_. Orana had been counting on Varania's magic to help protect them, and Hawke regretted depriving the steward of that; she bore the staff here no ill will. But even if she offered to stay and help defend the household, she figured she would be attacked or simply shunned for what she'd just done.

She should go. Go where? Fly home, up the side of Sundermount, and let the qunari and the elves fight their own battle? But... that would mean leaving -

_Varric. Varric is down at the docks, because for **you** he went over the sea to Brecilia. It would be wrong to just abandon him._And there was Merrill, too, who'd been her friend these long months, and, yes, even blasted Fenris, because she wasn't so cold that she could spend that many nights with a man and not care a fig if he lived or died.

Leaving the packed bundle behind, but taking the dagger, she trotted out of her room and down the hall to the front door. She was outside on the balcony when she heard Orana scream inside; definitely time to go. Her breath caught as she used the dagger's tip to reopen one of the long lines on her arm, then she gasped, feeling the surge of power, raw and alive and _hers_. Lifting her arms, she channeled it, the transformation finishing just as fast footfalls approached from within the house. Flapping her wings rapidly, she got past the low wall of the balcony and let herself fall, picking up speed until she knew the air rushing over her wings would support her. Orana's anguished, incoherent questions faded behind her, and she soared, angling for the docks.

* * *

><p>Hawke saw the problem, just as Varric and Fenris had. The qunari ships were out of range of the sorcerers, but the city was not out of range of the qunari. The Aerie was full of holes, one wing already reduced to rubble.<p>

Hawke knew little of the giants. The Chasind had never heard of them. She'd heard some stories in Darktown and from Varric, and Fenris was always keen to point out how brutally they treated their sorcerers, and how elves would never do anything like that. From what she'd heard, if they were attacking, they planned to put the city under their own strict rule. And they'd break the city's spine with those ships.

Flying high above the waves, the sun bright on her back, Hawke soared over the water toward the ships.

She circled them for a bit, watching. They fired their strange weapons through small windows in the sides of the ship, the deck sufficiently low in the center that the sides shielded the men there. Most of the qunari were down there, loading the weapons and shooting them off. A few loitered on raised decks at either end of the ship, keeping a watch on both events below and events ashore. One pair in particular she noticed: what looked to be a prisoner, weighed down with a chained collar and metal mask, and his captor. _That must be one of their sorcerers and his keeper._

Hawke flared her wings as she neared a mast, stalled and dropped onto her perch. No one noticed a bird up in the rigging. She would have the element of surprise, for this ship, at least.

Her spells were those of the Korcari Wilds, a cold place of storms, where new life rose only from the decaying reek of the swamp. She made her plans, took a breath, and began.

First, to become a woman again, since no bird ever hatched could cast a spell. Before any chanced to glance up, she reopened one of the lines on her arms, cutting more deeply, and weaving the power into an enchantment of sleep. Below her, qunari slowed in their deadly labors, then stopped, slipping to the deck.

She half-climbed, half-fell to the rear deck, to kill the sorcerer and his keeper while they slept. She managed to position the blade between the bars of the sorcerer's mask and stab him as she had Varania _(simple, isn't it?)_, but thought she might try to recoup some power from the other. _The throat... press hard, from ear to ear..._ The knowledge was there, waiting for her. She made the cut -

- and did not expect the qunari to lunge up off the deck, hands grasping at her. She tried to backpedal, but the qunari warrior was acting on pure trained instinct, fast as an eyeblink despite the mortal wound. Hawke latched onto the power there, pulling it as quickly as she could, even as a large hand closed around her throat and _squeezed_. He was dying, but he intended to take her with him.

Sparks danced before her eyes as the world around her darkened; within, all was a blazing heat of power. She _almost _didn't miss breathing, exulting in the red energies she was gathering. Her head was swimming, either from the power or lack of air... and then the power stopped coming. The hand around her throat slacked as the qunari fell, dead.

Hawke staggered, coughing and gasping, aware that time was passing. The qunari would not sleep all day. As soon as she thought she had her voice back, she worked another spell with her stolen power. Smaller but more potent, she focused it on the weapons deck.

The waking nightmare broke down the walls between the Fade-bound mind and the body. Quanri began to rise, eyes fixed on no thing in this world, and attack the shadows of their dreams. The deck below erupted in sudden bloody violence.

Hawke used the remainder of the power she'd drawn to transform back to a hawk, and winged away. Probably, they would not _all_ die, but she hoped enough would that they could no longer rain death on the shore.

Aboard the second ship, the "upper deck" qunari were noticing that their sister ship was having a problem. Its weapons fired only irregularly, and often at no discernible target; sounds of battle reached their ears between their own thunderous volleys. One qunari held a metal tube to his eye and pointed it at the first ship.

_If they are distracted, perhaps I can do to them what I did to the others,_ Hawke thought, landing again on the mast. But bad luck, or perhaps the disciplined qunari going on alert, foiled that; as she changed back, she heard a loud, slightly panicked shout of, _"Bas saarebas!"_from below. A bolt of arcane energy, from this ship's sorcerer, no doubt, hit her before she even had use of her eyes again. She twisted in pain and surprise, felt her balancing going, and desperately grabbed for the mast.

She made it, clinging to the wooden upright for all she was worth. Below, a flash of movement - the sorcerer, moving so that the mast did not block his spell.

She turned, as quickly as she dared, and pressed her back to the mast to brace herself as she made another cut. She expected the second magical attack, screaming low through gritted teeth as it hit. She could survive perhaps a third such bolt, but surely not a fourth. And the attacks left her with less of her own life-force to channel into magic...

The terrible blood-roiling attack needed more energy than she had; she reached instead for the storm, the tempest that rolled over the Wilds in the brief summer and shook the skies with thunder. She reached deep, putting as much as she dared into it. If it didn't work, she would soon be dead, anyway.

Sparks gathered around her fingertips; the sorcerer's keeper looked away from his charge suddenly and bellowed in alarm. The qunari mage was swinging his staff around, preparing for another spell. The sparks grew, and arced, and then a _crack _sharper than the sound of the bellowing weapons cut through the air as the electrical storm erupted below.

* * *

><p>Arvaarad shouted in horror as he saw the tell-tale flickers gathering between the hands of the <em>bas saarebas.<em> It was one of the Forbidden Spells, the ones _saarebas_ must never do aboard the ship, so near the _gaatlok_.

The warning came too late. Before _saarebas_ could destroy the _bas_, the Forbidden Spell completed, wreathing the decks in lightning. One bolt reached out, struck the covered chamber where the _gaatlok_ was held and -

* * *

><p>Finding herself airborne and falling, Hawke reflexively flapped her wings. Except she didn't have wings, she had arms.<p>

Wait, what?

_Splash._

* * *

><p>"Fenris!"<p>

"Busy, Varric!"

_Bam! Bam! Bam!_ "Less busy now?"

Leto fell back to the dwarf's position. They had circled around, as planned, and were harrying the qunari flank, on the lookout for more _saarebas_ for the allan'isa to neutralize. "What is it?"

"One of the ships has stopped firing. Something's up."

Leto squinted out to sea and shrugged. "Good news, I suppose."

"Unless they're cooking up something worse."

"And if they are? What are we to do about... hold a moment." Leto turned his head slightly, regarding the next ship in the line. He was certain he'd seen the violet-white flash of arcane energy... yes, there it was again! "They're shooting at something in their rigging," he frowned, shading his eyes with his hand.

The tempest crackled to life next, just for a brief moment, and he realized some_thing_ in the rigging must be some_one_- a sorcerer! Then the _gaatlok_ stores blew, sending several thick, muscular bodies and one much smaller, more slender one, flying. Fire raged on the ship, and it tilted to one side now.

"That was one of ours," he said, shucking off the harness that held his greatsword.

Varric blinked, astonished. "You're... what are you doing? You know that he's probably dead, right? Or will be by the time you... seriously, swim out there? Are you crazy?"

"If he's powerful enough to stop two warships in their tracks, I give good odds to him holding on a little longer. He deserves a chance at a rescue, Varric." Pieces of armor dropped to the ground. "I'm quite strong, I can swim that far."

"You _are_ crazy. You know dwarves can't swim for shit, right? We sink, like stones."

"I'm not asking you to come along, Varric."

The dwarf regarded him in silence as he yanked off his boots. "I'll... double back to those Emerald Guards we passed. They probably need some range support. Be careful, Broody. They see you splashing around near their ship, they'll put a javelin through you like a big, pointy-eared fish."

"Duly noted. Good luck, Varric."

"Same to you, Fenris."

Then with a few long strides, the allan'isa was running down one of the piers. He leapt, arrowing his body, and sliced beneath the waves.


	12. Chapter 12

It was getting harder to hold on to the barrel.

_Something_ had happened on the ship; Hawke still didn't know exactly what, but obviously some sort of explosion. She wondered if the qunari had drakestone and sela petrae, too.

Cold water had been something of a remedy to what had to be at least a mild concussion. Her thoughts were jumbled, but her body's imperative to _not drown _steered her to this piece of flotsam.

Shore seemed very far away. She had thought she might swim for it, clutching the barrel, but her body was having none of it. While most of her literal blood was still within her, she'd spent too much vitality, too much living energy on the tempest. She was weak, and she was tired, and just holding on to the barrel was enough of a challenge.

The barrel rolled slightly, making her scramble for a new hold. _More than enough of a challenge._

The third ship, she noted with some satisfaction, was moving away. It didn't seem to be heading for the open sea, but it surely wasn't going to wait for whatever had struck its sister ships to befall it as well.

Sorcerous lights flared over the docks and over parts of Lowtown. Without their ferocious ship-weapons, Hawke didn't expect the qunari on land to withstand the arcane and military forces of Stonewall. The qunari had a vicious reputation, of course, but this was a major city of the Arlathan Empire versus one ship full of warriors. It didn't seem like it would be a contest.

The barrel rolled again; she was dunked underwater for a moment before, sputtering, she got her head up again. Beyond the rise of the barrel, she saw the silent, stern face of Sundermount rising against the sky. A daughter of the frozen swamps, she knew her time floating in these cold waters would end her, sapping her strength until she let go the barrel and sank. Her mind went back to those familiar Wilds, where Father had died; they had been only a few days out of them when the ogre had killed her sister. _I am coming to where you are,_ she told them silently. _I will see you soon._ Mother and Carver, still up there on the mountain - did they think she was gone already? Would she be able to find them in dreams, tell them what had passed? She hoped that she might; they said witches could do such things, although Miriam had never told her how.

She wasn't sure how long she floated there, fingers growing stiff and numb, when she heard the rhythmic splashing of a swimmer. _A qunari? _Many had abandoned the sinking ship, although mainly in longboats which rowed after the remaining vessel. She peered around the edge of the barrel, looking for the source of the sound.

_Not qunari!_ Elf or human, she wasn't sure yet, but the figure was certainly not one of the horned giants. "Here!" she called. "Over here!" The swimmer paused and she called again, until he set off in her direction. She relaxed back behind the barrel, then scrabbled as it slowly turned again, disturbed by her movements. She _refused_ to lose hold of it now, not when rescue was at hand, and forced her fingers to clamp down on what handholds she could find - the lip around the lid, the iron hoops binding the thing together.

The barrel echoed hollowly as the swimmer threw an arm onto it and swung around the end to her.

"Fenris?"

_"Hawke?"_

They bobbed in the water for a moment, both momentarily at a loss for words.

"How are you even _here?_" Fenris asked.

He must have used that phylactery he'd made, months ago. "The city's under qunari attack and you thought the best thing to do was track me down?" She'd meant to put some heat behind it, but she was too, too tired. It only sounded weary.

To her chagrin, he heard it, too. "You can't be well," he muttered, shifting so that he swung out around behind her. One muscular arm snugged across her chest and under her chin, pulling her to his chest and keeping her head above water. "I've got you; let go," he instructed.

She did, both hands coming free only to grip at his arm. She tried to dig in with her nails, to break the skin to reach some of the hot, vital _life_ inside. But her hands were cramped and her nails weak from soaking in the sea. "I'm not going back, Fenris. Just... just... leave me be. I'll sink or swim."

"You'll sink," he said, arching his back so that they both floated, faces to the sun, before kicking for shore. "When that ship goes down, it'll take everything floating around here with it. I wasn't hunting you, Hawke."

"You weren't?" That seemed unlikely. "You just thought you'd go for a swim? In the middle of a battle?"

"Varric and I saw a sorcerer set a lightning storm off on a ship and then get thrown into the sea. It's my duty to defend sorcerers, particularly valiant ones saving the city from qunari ships that neither the Arcane Warriors nor the Emerald Guard could find a way to attack."

"Oh."

"You're welcome."

They both lapsed to silence, Fenris needing his wind for swimming and Hawke having no more to say. She closed her eyes against the salt splash of the ocean and relaxed, letting herself feel _saved and protected_ instead of _captured and restrained_. When they reached land and the questions came, she expected it to all change. Perhaps it was just the exhaustion talking, but she felt at peace, almost happy, in a warm, contented way very different from the euphoric flush of red power that came when he'd shed her blood.

It would end soon, one way or another. It had to.

...oo00O00oo...

In between skirmishes, Varric kept an eye on the water. If the crazy broody elf made it back to shore in one piece, it'd be a real pity if he got axed on the pier because he'd come out of the water without someone to give him cover.

Varric lost sight of him in the field of flotsam bobbing around the sinking ship. Good news was, the qunari that survived the combined spell and explosion had left the wreck for the third ship, so his prediction of elf kebab seemed unlikely to come true. The first ship continued to drift listlessly, which he took for a good sign.

In the clear water between the ships and the shore, he finally saw the splashing again. With a few words to the sergeant, he took off. A sudden qunari patrol meant a duck, a dodge, and a brief trip through the Undercity, but it wasn't anything Varric couldn't handle.

After a careful listen, he popped one of the grates and gratefully climbed out of the Undercity's muck. Another quick jog brought him back into sight of the sea, and after a moment, he spotted the splashing again. It looked like Broody was heading for a pier just to the east; Varric approved. It was mostly quiet there, right now, and it happened to not be too terribly far from where Varric had stashed the elf's armor.

He was halfway down the pier when the qunari thunder-weapons spoke again. He looked up, out to sea: the third ship was firing on the drifter. Oh, he hoped that meant what he thought it meant: if the qunari were cutting their losses and leaving, they wouldn't let their weapons fall into elvhen hands. They'd destroy them first. Even if they were sinking the ship because it was 'tainted' with magic, though... that was one less ship.

There was plenty of rope, coiled neatly hereabouts; he grabbed the free end of a hawser and chucked it enthusiastically into the water as Fenris got near with his sorcerer. "You did it, Broody!" he cheered. "Saved the hero of the hour! Fantastic! ...It'll need more sharks in the final version, though."

"Good to see you, too, Varric," a wan but amused voice came from below.

Varric almost dropped the rope. _"Hawke?"_

Varric hauled Hawke up, once Fenris had secured the rope around her torso, under her arms. The dwarf bit back a surprised hiss as she came into view, carved arms and legs very visible in her Chasind leathers. Old legends and tales about the long-ago war between the humans and the elves leapt to mind, stories about Tevinter magisters dripping blood as they unleashed awful magics upon the elvhen.

He pulled up Fenris next, over Broody's objections. He _had_ to be tired after a swim like that. Yep; he looked a little unsteady on his feet, even once he was on the pier. He wasn't trying to kill Hawke, which surprised the hell out of Varric.

_Maybe he figures she's done for anyway? _Hawke did not look good. She reminded Varric of how she'd looked over the winter, those early days when Fenris had finally admitted she was in his home and invited him and Merrill to visit her. She'd been wasted, a pale echo of the smartass human he remembered from nights in the Hanged Man. She'd given up.

But her eyes didn't say "given up." And now that they were side by side, he couldn't help but notice the designs on Hawke's limbs matched those on Fenris's. _Well now._ Seems like certain rumors about the elf might be true after all... And since _she_ wasn't trying to kill _him_, Varric gathered this wasn't precisely a problem.

"As lovely as the view of the smoking wreck out there is, I'd rather not stay out here with my ass hanging out," Varric pronounced judgment on their tactical situation. "Hawke, you think you can stagger your way to that warehouse across the street?"

She nodded grimly, and with Fenris under one arm and the other pressed down on his shoulders, they moved to the building he'd indicated. It was quiet at the moment - the fighting had moved up into Lowtown - but Varric wasn't confident that it wouldn't circle back around. He unshouldered Bianca with the hand that wasn't around Hawke's waist and kicked the door open. Bianca scanned the room with a critical eye, but it all looked empty. They settled Hawke on the floor; Varric coaxed the battered lock into latching while Fenris prowled the room, just to be sure. When all seemed secure, Varric thought it was finally time to ask, "So now what?"

"Now we get some answers," Fenris growled.

Hawke pointed weakly at Varric. "Your trip. Did you talk to her?"

"How were you casting primal storms when - "

"Of course I did," Varric interrupted smoothly. "As I was trying to tell Fenris here when we were so rudely interrupted. I even have a letter." Withdrawing the folded parchment packet from inside his jacket, he handed it to the elf. "Don't drip on it. It's a very important letter."

Fenris glared, unhappy to have his questions put off, but he glanced down at the letter. "That's the Grey Wardens' seal," he noted, suddenly curious.

"I told you, I talked to the Hero of Brecilia."

"Fine. Let me see." Varric broke the seal carefully, so that it was clear what it had been, and handed it over.

_To whomever Ser Tethras entrusts this letter, from the Grey Warden Neira of Brecilia, late an Arcane Warrior of the Aerie, troubled greetings._

_I have always been most proud to call myself a graduate of our Aerie. I treasure my time there and thought it a beacon of light and learning in the world. Like most, I always dismissed those claims of "changelings" as so much ignorant human nonsense. I knew humans aplenty at the Aerie, and none seemed unhappy._

_During the course of the Blight, the Brecilian Aerie was overrun with demons and abominations, invited in through an eluvian corrupted by a senior, human sorcerer. Before we killed him, he told us his story: that while walking Beyond, he was offered forbidden magics and accepted them. When he took the power, certain wards in his mind fell, and he understood that the sorcerers of the Aerie had altered him. He had not been allowed to think or to feel aught that would bring trouble to the Empire. Enraged at what had been done, he worked to "free" the other humans of the Aerie. The dark spirits, of course, had no interest in actually freeing anyone, and the sorcerers found too late that they had only traded one sort of shackle for another._

_All this might be attributed to the ravings of a demon, if we had not thereafter searched the topmost rooms of the Aerie and found, in a hidden and secret room, implements exactly as the human had described._

_I have held silence on this matter for over a year now, in the hope that I could divine some other, more innocent purpose for these fell tools. The longer I study them, the more convinced I become that, in this one thing at least, the possessed man spoke the truth. Terrible things are being done in the name of the safety of the Empire._

_I now put these words to paper, with my name given to them, in the hope that some of my undeserved reputation may lend them credibility. I place my trust in Ser Tethras that he will use them wisely. If they find like-minded folk, we should make common cause, not in the manner of rebels and insurgents, but in the manner of outraged citizens of the Empire who wish, in an orderly and lawful fashion, to petition the Emperor to put an immediate halt to this barbarous practice._

Fenris's eyes darted quickly between the page and the dwarf. "This... this is serious?"

"As the grave, my friend. And speaking of graves, I don't want to have to dig one. Here, Hawke." Varric set Bianca down and slipped off his coat, draping it on Hawke like a blanket as Fenris read the page again. She wasn't obviously wounded, but who knew what kind of damage that explosion had done. Not that a coat would cure much, but at least she'd be a little warmer.

She was watching him, curiously intent, as he stepped back. It was... a little unsettling, actually, so he started talking again. "So, how about it, Hawke? How _did_ you save the day? _Again?_"

She looked away. "Was I right, Fenris?" she asked.

"You... were." He sounded pretty shocked, himself. Not that Varric could blame him - it was pretty damning news. "I will not try to keep you here any longer. Unless..."

"Unless?" Hawke echoed, voice suddenly tight and alarmed.

Fenris looked up at her, at a loss. "Unless you wish to stay."

Varric pursed his lips and blew out a breath, taking a step away from the pair. Hawke's mouth had gone round in a pale little 'o,' and he had the distinct impression he was _unnecessary _at the moment.

"I can't," Hawke said behind him, sadly. "For more reasons than you know." He heard the soft scraping sounds of her trying to get up, then footsteps as Fenris moved to help her. That _flumph_ would be his jacket being resettled around her shoulders. "I'm sorry, little wolf," Hawke said quietly. "You tried to be good to me, and you kept your word. For those things... and some others..." Varric imagined a blush; would Hawke blush? Maybe she just traced one of those raw scratches to show what he imagined she meant... "I thank you."

"If you stay, I'll help. Help with this." Varric heard the parchment rustle. "They _lied _to all of us. We can drag this out, expose it..."

"I can't." Buckles jingled - an embrace? And that was _definitely _the sound of a kiss. "I have to go."

The storyteller part of Varric, without even knowing exactly what _was_ between these two, held its breath in the silence that followed. _Comedy or tragedy? Comedy or tragedy? Come **on**, Broody, go for the happy ending!_

And then, finally, almost a whisper: "I could go with you."

_Yes! Go, Broody, go! And they lived happily ever -_

"I killed Varania and used blood magic against the qunari."

_"What?"_ Fenris and Varric asked at the same time, the dwarf spinning around in surprise. He was just in time to see Hawke, still curled against the elf's chest, palm one of the small blades he kept concealed in the lining of his coat - _oops_- and open a long red line down Fenris's back. He staggered back and away from her as a red mist rose from the wound, groping for a weapon that wasn't there.

Color flooded Hawke's face; she raised her arms for a spell. Fenris's tattoos flashed and a column of white light splashed around Hawke - but the Fury of Elgar'nan only sapped mana, and Hawke wasn't using any. When Varric's eyes weren't dazzled anymore, Hawke was gone. Sounds above them drew his attention; a big damn bird was flapping its way up and out the big window that the cargo crane stuck out of.

He and Fenris stared after it for a long time. "I, uh... I didn't know she had a backup plan," Varric finally ventured. "I'm sorry, Leto." The elf didn't say anything or acknowledge that he'd spoken, so Varric just nodded to himself. "Right. You wait here then, and I'll go get your armor and sword from where I hid it. There's still a bunch of qunari out there, and _we_ can't fly away from this mess."


	13. Chapter 13

Great piles of elfroot remained to be pounded into paste, then stored away for the winter. Hawke went at it methodically, aided by Barlin's granddaughter, who'd shown signs of the gift in the past month.

She glanced up idly when the hunters returned, but her hands stilled when she saw their prey: a little wolf.

Bryant, grim-faced, threw the battered elf to the ground at Hawke's feet. Carver's knuckles were bloody. "For you, sister," he said, voice low with anger and hate. He'd taken her from them, kept her away, changed her - changed past all knowing. He would not take her away again.

She sat on her stool as if it were a throne. "Are you come for vengeance?"

He lifted himself up on his elbows to look at her. One eye was swelling shut. "No. Orana found Varania in your room. I can guess the rest." His good eye flickered away from hers, tracing the patterns on her arms and legs - his markings, made permanent with blade and ash.

"For your Empire, then?" Ice in the swamp, cold and black.

He hesitated, but shook his head. "I do not come to kill you for your magic."

"Then why are you come here?"

"Duty," he answered, a little too quickly. "Your... dealings put you at risk. From the first, my kind were made to guard against that risk, to protect sorcerers and," he encompassed the Chasind camp with a small tilt of his head, "those around them. Let me stay, and protect them."

"From me."

"Yes," he said, voice gravel. "From you."

"Look," Carver spat hotly, "we don't need protection from Hawke! She's our healer and our wisdom, and if you think for a minute we're going to let you lay a glowing hand on her - "

"Peace, Carver," Hawke interrupted him. "There is some sense in his words. The day might come when something inhuman looks out at you through my eyes."

"Then we will handle it ourselves, as we always have," Bryant said darkly.

Hawke considered this, then looked back down at Fenris. "Duty only?" she asked, the question like the first, smallest green shoots to crack the winter's ice.

He looked down at the ground for a moment, seeking his answer. When he raised his face again, it was somehow softer and more open than she had ever seen him before, all the guardedness gone. "No," he said, with a small shake of his head. "Not that only."

Hawke smiled, just a small but gentle one, before rising to help him sit on a bench, all business once again. "You will need some poultice on your face. Carter certainly worked you over. Fortunately, we are swimming in elfroot right now."

"Sister!" Carter stomped over to point at her angrily. "You're not serious? After what he did!"

"To me," Hawke answered him without looking, already dabbing poultice onto wounds. "And I choose to forgive what wrongs were done and take him for my own, as is my right as the tribe's witch."

"Unless the battle chief says you nay," Bryant pointed out.

_Then_ she paused and turned to look at him. "Do you?"

Bryant crossed his arms and regarded Fenris. "If he were here to do harm, I think Carter or I would be injured or perhaps killed. So... for now, no. It remains to be seen what trouble he may bring from the city, and whether he is worth the risk to the tribe."

Fenris inclined his head. "That is fair."

"Good. It is settled, then." Hawke turned back around to resume her ministrations, painting on the poultice with deft fingers. He leaned into her touch, and she smiled again, brushing some of his cloud-pale hair aside with her clean hand.

The Arlathan Empire might be entangled in its greatest struggle, and Stonewall caught in heated controversy, but on the slopes of the Sundermount, the wild blood of the hawk and the wolf ran free.


End file.
